


Blessed Are Those Who Hunger...

by cloudsarefluffy



Series: Myths to Legends [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: (no one in the gang tho okay), Alpha Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, Canon-Typical Violence, Cornwall is their leader, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Mates, Mating Bond, Minor Character Death, Mythology - Freeform, Not Beta'd, Pinkertons are hunters, Possessive Arthur Morgan, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Protective Arthur Morgan, Reader Insert, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt, Werewolf Arthur Morgan, blink and you'll miss it tho, humans hate anything but humans, none of the gang is human, part 1 of a series, will come back to fix up later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 09:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18443720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudsarefluffy/pseuds/cloudsarefluffy
Summary: Written for a Mutual, this fic was based on a Tumblr post in which every member of the Van Der Linde gang is a mythological creature. I pretty much took that and ran with it, and created a monster all its own.---“Have any of you noticed how Arthur’s been actin’ lately?” you ask as you work on laundry with them together, near the edge of camp at the bank of the lake, “He’s been... off since we left Horseshoe.”“I’ve noticed he’s a bit snappier, but with the full moon bein’ tonight I guess that isn’t entirely unexpected,” Tilly murmurs, batting away a few flies with a scowl from where she lies on the bank of the river as she works the dirty laundry against her scales.“But Arthur’s never been like that. He’s always had great control.”“Maybe, but he’s older, and he never took a mate. Well, we were pretty sure he was courtin’ y—”Pressingly, Mary-Beth glances from you to the kitsune, “Karen!”“Ah right, sorry,” she rolls her eyes minutely, “He just hasn’tofficiallytakin’ a mate, which at this point is a bit odd for him.”Karen’s words have you reeling for a moment, and you look to her, baffled, “A what now?”





	Blessed Are Those Who Hunger...

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! So since there is a bit of my own personal tweaking when it comes to the lore of this, I made a quick rundown here of things that either couldn't find a place for explanation in the story or are briefly met upon. 
> 
> \- "Myth" is short for mythological, and is a term used for a creature, being, or person that is not human.
> 
> \- There are a wide variety of myths. They can vary in type, power, ability, and also with how they originate.
> 
> \- Some myths must or can be born with their status as a myth, others are changed— either by a myth themselves or through various happenings like rituals or death. For example, a centaur cannot change a human into one of their kind. Whereas a werewolf can bite and turn a human as well as a vampire, or a myth like a shade (spirit, like a ghost) is created when someone dies.
> 
> \- Some myths do not have the ability to change humans (as mentioned above) and do not have powers that can affect or harm humans.
> 
> \- Other myths, however, rely upon humans for their survival. Such as a vampire needing to drink blood. Humans and myths have been battling for ages due to this.
> 
> \- In this fic, the Pinkertons are a human organization that aim to "protect humanity" and "eradicate any and all myths" to ensure that. Their creation was a direct result of a massive war fought between myths and humans almost fifty years prior to this story beginning.
> 
> \- Other gangs, like Colm and the O'Driscolls, are also myth-filled posses, except that they attack and kill humans in retaliation.
> 
> \- As for the Van Der Linde gang, they still operate as they do, as a misfit bunch of myths who vary in every way possible. Most are peaceful in the sense they avoid humans as they can, and others have changed ways they do things to avoid changing or injuring anyone. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Here's a list of who is who and what is what here in the Van Der Linde gang:
> 
> \- Arthur: werewolf (can completely shift into a wolf outside of the full moon, also a born werewolf and alpha)
> 
> \- Dutch: vampire (changed, bitten in colonial America in mid 1700's — can charm humans when needing to feed, pupils change red to black based on hunger, sensitive to sunlight)
> 
> \- Hosea: dragon 
> 
> \- John: draug (similar to a zombie, a reanimated person but not decomposing and is cognitive — in this story is created through an act of necromancy, John eats animals in lieu of other living flesh to stay alive)
> 
> \- Abigail: siren (sailor's tale of enchanting women who hypnotize sailors with their beauty and singing to lead them to their deaths — her ability is called trance, is not tied to water)
> 
> \- Jack: fae/changling (a child that replaces a human one when it is taken by fae, or dark fairies — in this fic, changling is merely terminology for Jack's young age, and he is just a fae)
> 
> \- Sadie: valkyrie (a female warrior of Odin, who choose amongst those who have died the ones that can go to Valhallah — in this fic, she is essentially a war goddess)
> 
> \- Charles: skinwalker (Navajo folklore of a medicine man or witch that can disguise themselves as other people, or animals)
> 
> \- Javier: chupacabra
> 
> \- Lenny: Phoenix (a mythological bird with feathers of flame, can regenerate itself and heal others with its tears)
> 
> \- Kieran: centaur (half man, half horse)
> 
> \- Sean: leprechaun
> 
> \- Karen: kitsune (a fox demon — Karen can shift into a fox, has powers that she often uses to get into mischief and entertains herself with)
> 
> \- Mary-Beth: nymph (Greek, a young, female deity often associated with certain natural features — lived in the Heartlands past Twin Stack Pass before Cornwall expedited oil there to fund his Pinkterton regime, has a crown of flowers that she grows on her head)
> 
> \- Tilly: nixie (water-based creature similar to a mermaid, but supposedly they have an underwater "palace" in which they live, can have a human form as either a fair miden or old hag that lingers near the body of water they inhabit — Tilly moved from Annesburg after pollution ruined the river, prefers to stay close to water but can go onto land)
> 
> \- Molly: gorgon (like Medusa, except a gorgon is the creature she was turned into — seeing the red snakes upon Molly's head causes someone's heart to turn to stone, undead myths like vampires or draugs, are unaffected by a gorgon, and Molly also wears a dark shall to cover them up)
> 
> \- Uncle: sasquatch
> 
> \- Pearson: orc
> 
> \- Micah: basilisk (a massive snake in mythos, venomous — in this, Micah has slit pupils like a snake)
> 
> \- Bill: yeti
> 
> \- Swanson: demon
> 
> \- Strauss: goblin (a small, wretched creature that has a petulant obsession for money, precious metals, or anything obtaining fiscal value)
> 
> If you all have any questions, either leave a comment or reach out to me on Tumblr! :)
> 
> Enjoy!~

Above the gang’s new home at Clemens Point, the moon hangs heavy, yellow and almost entirely full as it lights each crest in the waters of Flat Iron Lake.

Cicadas hum, crickets chirp, and the frogs croak along the banks, announcing the mugginess and lingering heat in the air before it hits you as you exit your tent.

Most of the others are up, as you pass them with your metal mug in hand, putting together the last bits of tents and their belongings away from the move. It’s been a long few days, and the wear of it all is obvious as you pass them to the newborn fire by Pearson’s wagon.

It crackles and glows in the night as you kneel down beside it, grabbing the heated container of water to prepare your ground coffee, your eyes drifting among the various worn faces lingering in camp.

They’re all miserable, with the move being as torturous as it was sudden, with the Pinkertons catching wind of the gang’s presence somewhere near Valentine. Seems they hadn’t given up since Blackwater, and despite losing the gang when they escaped to Colter, it seems they were to remain as determined as they were imposing. You knew their main funder, Leviticus Cornwall, had a serious vendetta against any myth, and he had a particular dislike for the Van Der Linde gang that burned as red as the blood he was out for.

The taste of the coffee is bitter and burnt on your tongue, but you still sigh gratefully as you rest back against the fallen log at your back, looking past the reach of the fire’s reach and where the moon illuminates the rest of the camp.

Your eyes spot Arthur’s wagon, almost drawn to them with gravity, and they narrow as you take in the sight of the man inside of it.

It was extremely unusual to see Arthur on the night of the full moon, especially in his human form. He often shifted, pushed by the itch under his skin, and he would burn off all the energy from it by hunting or exploring the woods.

But tonight, he seems to stay inside of his tent, looking perturbed and almost in pain.

You hadn’t heard of him getting injured during the Pinkerton conflict with Cornwall in Valentine. After all, Cornwall despised Arthur the most for what he was, and you worried any time Arthur was out of your sight.

“Conejo?”

You jump, nearly spilling some of your coffee as you hear a light chuckle beside you, your head swiveling as you take in the sight of an amused Javier sitting across from you at the fire. Breathing out as you eye his entertained expression, you turn towards him.

“Listen, just because you call me Rabbit doesn’t mean you can scare me like one...” you mutter.

Javier laughs, “It’s so easy, Conejo, I can’t help myself.”

“Was there anythin’ you wanted apart from pullin’ at my stitches?”

“Well, there is. I hope you don’t take much offense when I say this,” Javier starts, growing deathly serious, “How are you holdin’ up?”

Sighing, you swirl your coffee absently as you reply, “Fine.”

“Conejo, it’s not that I don’t doubt your word, it’s just... that Pinkerton attack in Valentine. That was a lot to have go down, and you’ve never been around for one of those ambushes before. I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

“Out of everyone, I should be doin’ the best,” your voice dims, “After all, they aren’t huntin’ me down. I’m human, remember?”

Javier shakes his head, crossing his arms and trying to hide the yellow glow of his eyes under the brim of his bowler hat, “You might be, but that makes the Pinkertons all the more dangerous. At least for us. I’m not sure if you’ve seen the posters they’ve put up for us, Conejo, but they paint you as quite the tortured victim they intend to rescue.”

“Well, they’re idiots then. Not one of you has ever harmed a hair on my head, despite our rough start.”

“Doesn’t matter. They think we are, or they believe in us doing so eventually. Either we use you like those sheep back in Valentine, or we change you into one of us. Same story, just a different face with those bastards.”

You sneer, the prospect as offensive as it is outrageous, “Don’t they know I’ve been runnin’ with you lot since we were in Colter, and I’ve not once ever feared for myself here? Well... at least from some of you at times. But you can’t blame me for Micah or Bill.”

That gets a small snort out Javier, but he shakes his head  

“They don’t care to know about to truth, Conejo. They care for their agendas. Their oppression. Myths to them are the bane of this earth. It doesn’t matter if we never harm a human, we’re like roaches to them. Vermin,” Javier growls lightly, “They use fear as their boot, and they have convinced everyone for thousands of years that we need to be exterminated before we outgrow them. And of course, we end up going further southeast where their hold is the strongest.”

Hesitantly, you ask, “What’s wrong with Lemoyne?”

“The south is a hateful place for us, Conejo. I’m sure you’ve heard about the war, some years prior. The one that truly set us into this life of hiding and running as we are, and what made the Pinkertons into such a stronghold... When I was in Mexico, I fought. I was young, only a few decades old, so young and inexperienced compared to my parents, but I went alongside them... The humans, that is when they truly attempted to wipe us out. And they killed my family, orphaned me, and led me to flee here where things were not much better.”

Your mind wanders to the sight of the battlefield not far from here, the way the land was scarred and deformed, practically shaped by the hand of death itself sending your skin crawling.

“That hate stayed here, especially after some of us myths managed to make it out and survive. It’s been around fifty years ago now, but there’s still a few alive to remember. And those who aren’t, they passed it on. Lemoyne is dangerous for us, Conejo. They have an entire faction down here, the Lemoyne Hunters... And with the Pinkertons themselves on us as they are, I imagine this is the most danger we’ve been in.”

Scowling, you set your forgotten coffee down, “But I don’t understand... Colm and his men, they’re worth goin’ after! You all are peaceful!”

“Well, Colm doesn’t have a werewolf in his posse.”

Jumping, you swivel yet again, but this time, instead of a grinning Chupacabra keen to catch your attention, you find your eyes widening upon the sight of a miserable looking werewolf.

“A-Arthur,” you stammer, blinking as you go to stand, “Are you—”

“M’fine,” he grunts, and he motions for you to sit down.

You do, moving slowly, watching him carefully as he practically collapses down onto the log. It’s worrisome, considering how close the full moon is. With only a few days of it waxing into completion, Arthur should be as lively as ever.

But here he is sweating, almost shivering as he looks as pale as the moon itself overhead. You figure it doesn’t help that he’s wearing that damned leather jacket of his, but something else seems fundamentally off about him.

“Even I don’t believe that for a second, Lobo—”

“Listen,” Arthur all but snaps, his eyes flashing a dangerous red and his voice growing gritty, and both you and Javier lean back some in the face of his outburst, “We ain’t got time to be worryin’ about things that aren’t a problem, so how about you focus your attention where it’s damn well needed?”

You suck in a sharp breath, not used to Arthur behaving in such a manner. He’s always had impeccable control, not once snapping or rising to anger with his wolf. In all of the short time you’ve known Arthur, there has never been a single moment that you felt that he was letting himself slip, and to see this is highly unusual. Even with the full moon being so close.

“Hey, it’s okay, Arthur,” Javier tries to deescalate the situation, flashing his yellow irises at Arthur and exposing his neck in submission as he stands, hands held up in surrender, “No one’s pokin’ you.”

The second that Arthur realizes Javier is placating his wolf, the man crumbles, making a wounded noise and putting his face into his hands.

“Arthur?”

The werewolf doesn’t answer, he just breathes roughly into his palms, chest heaving slightly as you watch his knuckles whiten and curl. Javier looks gravely concerned, his eyes pinned on Arthur before the werewolf is able to get somewhat of a grip on himself.

“M’sorry, Javier,” Arthur mutters, moving his face back from his hands only a little, and you can see how his irises glow red between his fingers.

“It’s okay,” the chupacabra murmurs, and he takes a step towards Arthur before it looks like he thinks better of it, “Just... If you need anything, let me know.”

Arthur nods, not meeting Javier’s eyes, “Will do...”

Javier looks to you, his eyes speaking in more ways he ever could in a fleeting glance as he passes, walking past the fire and out into the dark depths of the camp.

It leaves only you and Arthur, and the crickets that sing their nightly song around you. You swallow, looking down towards your lukewarm coffee and wondering what you could say or do in light of Arthur’s condition, about the way he’s acting.

But you don’t get the chance, as Arthur sighs, leaning back against the trunk you’ve taken a seat on with his eyes tracking the glittering stars above.

“I thought things would be easier by now,” he murmurs, as wistful as he is disappointed, “Should’ve known better...”

You hum, looking away from the werewolf and towards the crackling flames before you.

“If you’re thinkin’ you should be punishin’ yourself, don’t. You shouldn’t ever treat optimism as naivety,” you tell him.

At your words, Arthur snickers, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t call it either.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“A daydream,” he says, folding his hands across his lap, “Like somethin’ Jack would conjure up when he plays. Ain’t real, but you want it to be.”

“You don’t think things can get better?”

“Not with how they are now...” Arthur grumbles, his eyes squinting as his drawl dips lower, “Cornwall was smart, drivin’ us further east and south of all things. He’s about got us cornered, here where the heart of his movement lies. He’s never been this bloodthirsty, but, he ain’t ever been one to say he’s parched, either... Doesn’t help he found me none. It’s probably why he’s comin’ after us as he is.”

You shake your head, “I don’t get why he’s so hateful towards myths, let alone why he would fixate on you.”

“Oh, he’s hateful to all of ‘em, but to werewolves, he’s somethin’ else entirely,” Arthur takes his hat off his head and fiddles with the length of rope tied onto it, “Say, Rabbit, how many of us do you think there are?”

The question throws you, and you look towards your lap, trying to figure out an answer.

After a few moments, you weakly murmur, “I’m not sure...”

“There’s only a few others,” the werewolf quiets some, a longing sadness working its way into his voice, “Last I heard, there was only about twenty of us left.”

Your chest seizes as your mind wraps around that concept, “Only twenty? I thought... I thought there were more...”

“It’s probably less now, considerin’ that’s what I heard a few years ago... And if you rolled back even further, there was a lot of us. Once. There even used to be families of us, generations worth of old blood,” Arthur growls then, “But we got hunted like no other myth, all because of Cornwall. He hates us the most, blames us the most. And if anything, he’s why the war started on all of us in the first place.”

You breathe, your exhale feeling hollow as it passes over your lips.

“Why would he take it that far?”

“Because,” Arthur’s eyes move to you, his eyes as red as they are unwavering, “anyone would want to get even with the bastards that killed the one person who meant the most to them.”

The wind picks up then, blowing at your back and past you, picking up your hair and carrying it in the werewolf’s direction. You see him shudder lightly, dropping his gaze and looking away, almost holding onto himself as he did moments earlier.

Concerned for seeing him like this, you lean closer, moving your hand to place it on his shoulder.

The moment you make contact, he about seizes, flailing wildly and so quick that he moves like a blur with his speed. You jump back, heart ramping up in your chest as you find him a few feet away when all is said and done, that distance pointedly put between you both.

He’s breathing heavy, swallowing thickly and trembling. That sweat from before is still there, with a rivulet of it collecting from his forehead to run down his temple and the slope of his cheekbone as you stare.

“D-Don’t—” Arthur stutters, the strain as evident as the grit in his voice, “I can’t—”

“Arthur?”

The werewolf doesn’t hesitate to turn tail and run, that fast-paced walk of his quickly carrying him back towards his tent.

Something in your chest falters, sinking and seemingly rotten as you process what has happened.

Arthur... he’s never been like this with you. Ever. Even when you met him.

It’s nothing good.

Nothing good at all.

 

 

 

 

**\---**

You were the only human in the Van Der Linde troop, which to many, was a very, very, very odd thing.

A human, running with a disarray of myths? It was beyond what most considered to be “natural.”

Even other myths despised the idea of allowing a human to remain in their midst without taking advantage. After all, some were like Colm, hating humans as much as they hated them. A hate so long and old it was imbued into their very being.

You know for a fact that Colm and his men would’ve done exactly as Javier described, and as the Pinkertons feared.

They would’ve kept you for their own pleasures and gains, or they would’ve changed you into one of their own. So was how it went with them.

But the Van Der Linde’s... there was no reason to fear them.

Dutch, he grew up in another era entirely. Colonial America, from what you were told, in the 1700’s. He was bitten, turned into a vampire and forced into the world of myths ever since. His past almost three centuries have been spent living on the edge of humanity, feeding when need be and only trying to survive as he kept his distance. He recalls a time in which myths weren’t hunted as they are, were freer as they once were. It is a memory he wants to live now, at yet another turn of the century, as human society begins to shift yet again. But you would take his naivety over the likeness of Colm any day.

Especially when they troop he ran with carried close enough values to the vampire.

Granted, you did not like everyone. And more so for that matter, you did not like Micah. Micah — a basilisk that was truly nothing but an untrustworthy snake — eyed you as though you were an enemy at one moment, or an opportunity at another. He often told Dutch not to trust you or other humans and tried to push his own agenda on the man. It only spoke of worse things to come, of a day when it would boil over and not be brushed away by Dutch.

But mostly, it was clashes of personality that caused such a problem. Bill, with his temper. Swanson, with his inebriation. Molly, with her vanity. Or even Dutch, with his bravado.

Not once have you truly feared for your life as the humans in Valentine whispered. Not once were you forced to do anything you didn’t want. And not once did any of the myths under Dutch’s guidance try to change you fundamentally.

Oh, if the Pinkertons and the people they have fearful under their thumb really knew. Really _knew_ just how wrong they were.

If not about all myths, but the ones you ran with.

And more so, the one they wanted to kill the most.

The one who saved you.

The one who proved everything you’d ever learned growing up wrong.

Then maybe, just maybe, things could be a little easier.

 

 

 

 

**\---**

Come morning, Arthur was gone.

You wanted to confront him, ask him what was happening and why he was behaving so oddly, but it seems you won’t get a chance as you stand in his vacated tent. You sigh, crossing your arms and looking about his tent as you try to swallow the hurt feeling that emerged upon your discovery.

Your eyes land on the photo of Mary, and something about it stings. You’re not sure why, exactly.

Like star-crossed lovers they were, only separated by eons and worlds between them. Wanting, but could never be.

“He loved her, you know...”

You don’t jolt this time, but instead, your face draws up and pinches as Hosea comes up from behind you. His scent of ash and brimstone reaches you before he stops at your side, and you smile faintly at his presence.

“I know...”

“It was a shame,” the old myth murmurs, stepping past you to pick up her picture, “I used to think humans were simply foolish. Idiots driven by their fear of the unknown. When I met Mary, that somewhat changed. I was old then, considered wise for my years, but she was a surprise to all of us... She cared for Arthur and loved him just as fiercely... I think she taught me more about humans than she realized.”

“What happened?” you ask, noticing the way that Hosea’s eyes glisten at her memory before he sets her photograph back down.

“Word got to her family that she was with Arthur, and about all of Saint Denis rallied behind them when they objected. They set out to kill Arthur. Thought he intended to change her, or that he was going to attack the rest of them,” Hosea sighs, sitting down on Arthur’s bed and rubbing at his aching knees, “She got caught in the middle, got killed by her own kind...”

Cursing, you sit down beside the aged dragon, your voice low, “Is that why Arthur—”

“Yes,” Hosea looks to you then, “He doesn’t like humans because of what they did to Mary.”

Your eyes drop to your hands and where your fingers fumble about one another, your throat growing tight as you whisper, “Does he not like me? . . .”

“You worry where it’s not needed... He may keep his distance or act as he would rather be anywhere else than in your presence sometimes, but if he truly kept up to the old habit, then you would never see him. Besides, it’s to my knowledge that bestowed the nickname of Rabbit onto you.”

Nodding, you add, “He did, when he found me... I just thought... Sometimes he acts like he prefers that I had died that night. Like I’m nothin’ more than a problem, especially after what happened in Valentine.”

“You’re not. I can promise you, you are one of the few humans I’ve seen him tolerate. Any others he would have already driven off or given a reason to hate myths,” Hosea sets a hand on your shoulder, “I know he’s been actin’ worse since we got down here, but... this ain’t like him. Even from what I know. I wouldn’t say that it’s because of you any at all. He just hates this place more than any of us, just as it hates him more than any of us.”

“I got a feelin’... In my gut... Somethin’ ain’t right here...”

“Well, listen to it. Usually, those urges have some legitimacy to ‘em,” Hosea stands with a noise of discomfort, glancing to you over his shoulder and noticing the way your fret, “We’re all worried about him,” he murmurs, “Javier told me about last night, what happened...”

“He ain’t actin’ like himself,” and then you shake your head, “But then again, I guess I don’t really know him like y’all do...”

“You’re allowed to care ‘bout him, Rabbit,” Hosea smiles somberly at you, “He may not be the most open myth, nor a perfect one, but he’s one of the few that I think are worth keepin’ around. And while he may act like he doesn’t care about you, just give him time. You’ll see.”

The dragon nods to you and takes his leave.

You sit on Arthur’s cot, only more perturbed than when you came.

 

 

 

 

**\---**

_The moon is fully in the sky as you walk out of your family’s cabin, going towards the barn with a bucket of leftover fruit bits and other goodies for the animals staying there. The wind howls, sharp and gusting past, signaling yet another round of storms to be not too far off with the way the air feels as thick and moist as fog on your skin._

_Normally you would take care of this chore before it got so late, but the shifty weather and helping your mother prepare dinner kept you from doing so. At your feet, your coonhound, Lou, barks, his tail wagging slightly as he keeps pace at your heels as you approach the barn._

_The wind all about blows the doors open, and you head inside, using the moonlight to guide you past the few stalls where the chickens nest, and to where the pigs and your two mares reside in the back._

_The animals greet you quietly, with the horses gladly taking bits of the carrots you had discarded during cooking, as well as a few apples you snuck past your mother. As for the pigs, you give them the rest, and they gobble everything down, making greedy noises of appreciation as you set down your empty pail and cross your arms over the fencing of their stall._

_Watching them with amusement, you can’t think of a better way to spend the night._

_That is until there is a loud shot from the direction of your house, and the scream of your mother to follow._

_Lou instantly hunches down, growling lowly as your chest stills. You hear faint shouting, and the horses grow antsy as you force yourself to move._

_Heading towards the doors of the barn, you quickly use the small openings between the doors to watch what is happening as you slide its large, wooden latch into place._

_You can see a few men on horses outside, all dressed in dark clothing and holding lanterns as they pace their horses outside. And even in the dim lighting, you can see the guns they carry._

_The sight of a shotgun has your breath catching in your throat, and your blood turning to ice, but it’s truly the sight from the window to your parents’ room that has terror gripping onto you._

_You can see the men in there, brandishing their guns and aiming towards your parents from where they were getting ready to sleep, and you manage to shut your eyes as you hear the damning crack of their guns firing._

_Hot tears roll down your cheeks as you hear the men laugh, and you somewhat fall against the barn door, trying to keep as quiet as you can manage in your sorrow and fear._

_You blurrily watch as they ransack your house, overturning furniture and taking what they please. Beside you, Lou whines, taking a step back from the barn doors as the horses begin to grow agitated._

_“Should be a damn fine take,” one of the men laughs as he exits the house, grabbing one of the lanterns from his other accomplices and turns back towards your house, throwing it onto your porch and instantly setting it ablaze as it shatters, “What fools they were, thinkin’ they could live on Del Lobo lands and not pay their fair share?”_

_Del Lobo’s... You knew of them, the human gang that ran in these parts around Hennigan’s Stead. You knew they were camped out near Manteca Falls, and had been growing more and more aggressive with homesteads in the area. Just last week, when you were near MacFarlane’s Ranch trading, that folk had warned your parents. But they brushed it off, not taking it seriously._

_And oh, how they should’ve..._

_Flames begin to engulf the rest of the house, quickly filling the air with the acrid smell of smoke and becoming almost blinding in the dead of night._

_“Oh, we made them pay alright,” one of them laughs, holding up your mother’s necklace, the metal flashing in the firelight._

_They celebrate, laughing as the divvy out your family’s belongings as the fire consumes the rest of your home as you sob from your place in the barn, all about dancing around your house as though it were a campfire._

_And then, one looks towards the barn, growing greedier as he yells, “Hey, we didn’t get to check in there!”_

_A few of them begin to approach the barn, and your eyes widen as you scramble back from the door, all but falling back into the dirt as you hear a shrill howl cut through the air._

_Your eyes immediately drop to Lou, thinking that it was him, but your dog is shivering, teeth bared as he looks towards the barn doors as the howl continues._

_Then what—_

_Screams reach your ears, and you stiffen, hearing the wet snap of bone and the firing of guns. You tremble, walking back towards the barn doors to try and see what is happening outside right as the sounds stop._

_As you peer outside, you're met with the sight of bodies strewn about on the ground. The horses the men were riding on scamper off, rearing their heads back as they gallop past the blazing remains of your house and into the dark of the night._

_It seems all of the men are dead, the look of sheer horror on their lifeless faces frozen in place from their last moments._

_You step back again, moving closer to Lou and where he whimpers in fear, tail between his legs as the horses kick at their stalls, and the other animals cry out. There is a shuffling near the back door to the barn, the one that never quick locks properly, and you freeze._

_Your eyes drift there as you slowly turn, seeing how the light from under the doors is cut off by a massive, lumbering just outside. The doors push inward, nearly falling open as whatever it is attempts to come inside, the huffing of its deep pants sending shivers down your spine._

_Beside you, Lou barks, taking a step in front of you as the assault on the barn door stops._

_For a second, nothing happens._

_You cannot hear its breathing anymore, nor the sniffling it made at the wood. The only sounds you can pick up are the flames growing behind you, and the shrill of the wind passing through the few trees that grew on your property._

_Lou shakes, sniffing the air and nearly yelping, disappearing suddenly as he came and into one of the stalls right as the barn doors surge open._

_You fall back, landing harshly and with a wince as it pulls on your wrist the wrong way, your eyes locked onto the massive, golden frame silhouetted in the doorway, and its glowing red eyes framing its face._

_A werewolf. And an alpha, at that._

_“D-Don’t—” you stutter, ignoring the pulsing pain in your wrist to start crawling the opposite direction as it takes a few steps forward, its pointed ears flicking towards you as it lowers its snout to the ground, “Please, I—”_

_Your back hits the barn door right as it nears you, its heated breath contrasting to the cool tracks from tears on your cheeks as it sniffs._

_And then, it’s taking in a deep lungful, coming closer and rumbling as you still against the barn door._

_You turn your neck, hot tears working their way down your cheeks as you try to stay quiet, your bottom lip rolling between your teeth as its cold nose presses into the crook of your neck._

_And then its maw parts, and you brace yourself for the bite to come._

_But it never does._

_Instead, you hear a low growl, and the air shifts violently around you. And then, a familiar snapping reaches your ears, followed by almost inhuman groans of pain._

_Your eyes open, and you look over to see a naked man hunched over, shivering. A hole in the barn’s roof offers a spot for the moonlight to pass through, catching on the man’s glistening skin and the notches of his spine on his back._

_You breathe, watching as he looks up to you, eyes still glowing and voice as rough as it is low._

_“I’m not goin’ to hurt you,” his lips press together, his face pale as he straightens some, “I’m not like those men...”_

_“No...” your voice sounds almost foreign to your own ears, “You’re not.”_

_That gets a pained chuckle from him as he goes to stand, and you quickly avert your eyes, knowing he will be about as naked as the day is born._

_“No... I’m not.”_

_You hear a rustling, and you peak, cracking an eyelid to see the back of the man as he wraps one of the horses' blankets around his waist. The red and black woven fabric stands starkly against his skin as he turns, smirking slightly as he catches you staring, your cheeks burning lightly as you force yourself to look away._

_“You look as pale as a ghost,” he jokes, but he quickly loses his mirth to seriousness, “But you ain’t gotta be. I know my kind doesn’t have a good reputation, but—”_

_“The last werewolf who came through these parts was hanged,” you say, not missing the way his face grows cold upon that fact, “I... I wasn’t alive then. It was right before I was born... But the people here talk about it like it happened just yesterday.”_

_“Then I ain’t gotta explain it. Just know I ain’t like that, either,” the man moves close to you, and you move out of his way as he peers through the barn doors and to the rest of your house that burns away outside, “That your home?”_

_“Yes... and they were my parents too,” you mutter, standing, “It was the Del Lobo’s gang... Guess my parents didn’t want to pay up..._

_“Damn them, then,” Arthur spits onto the ground, turning towards the horses and glancing between you, “Well, I normally don’t do this but... I can take you somewhere.”_

_Your skin grows cold at the prospect as you ask, “Where exactly?”_

_It’s then that Lou emerges, rushing to your side as you pick him up. The werewolf eyes the exchange, not missing the way Lou growls lightly at him before licking gratefully at your face as you hold him._

_“It’s... It’s where I’m camped up with some other myths,” he tells you, walking towards the two mares and holding out his hands, calming them some before he continues approaching and talking to you, “You’ll be the only human, but you’ll be safe.”_

_The concept of being the only human in a group of myths has you feeling unsettled. You remember all that your parents used to tell you. The horror stories. The tales of people losing limbs, or their life. Families killed off entirely, humans changed into creatures they weren’t before._

_But if anything, you heard of the wolves. The beasts that could walk in the skin of a man but were anything but. Feral creatures, as your parents described. Driven by their bloodlust and by the animal within them._

_And here you were, at the mercy of a werewolf._

_But then again, your parents said to only trust humans, and they were shot dead and burned for it._

_As the man mounts up on one of the mares, he looks at you, “You comin’?”_

_Glancing back to where you can see the rest of your house succumb to the flames, you breathe and make your decision._

 

 

 

 

 

**\---**

A tongue laps at your face, and you go to brush it away.

When it comes back again, you curse, sitting up lightly and coming face to face with Lou.

The young coonhound wags its tail at you and barks, looking ecstatic now that you have woken.

It’s late, almost near midnight with how the moon is almost directly above you as you look around camp, taking in who is up.

Swanson, still drunk as ever, sings at the campfire, his black eyes squinted from focus as he tries to remember the words to his drunken serenade. Beside him, you watch as Pearson shakes his head, sharpening one of his tusks with his knife while Sean does a horrible jig to Swanson’s song.

You shake your head, standing up from your bedroll to go into the rest of camp.

“Lou wake you?”

At the angelic voice you hear, you nod, looking over to where Abigail works on her stitching, her needle disappearing and emerging from Jack’s torn up clothes as she mends them. Beside her, Jack it out cold, snoring and mumbling in his sleep. Above his head, you can see pictures of gunslingers emerge like pictures drawn in dust, glittering and golden from his dreams.

You nod, moving your gaze back to her.

“He’s been botherin’ me for a bit. Think he wants to go explorin’,” she giggles, and you have to shake your head, looking away— she notices, and immediately stops sewing, “Oh... I... I wasn’t meaning to trance you.”

“You can’t help it,” you tell her honestly, sneaking her a glance with a smile before making sure your eyes don’t linger, “I get that sometimes it just happens, ain’t your fault.”

“You’re better than most humans. They usually don’t notice... And well, least I ain’t Molly,” she snickers.

“That you ain’t.”

You wave her off, bidding her a fun time with her sewing as you go to check out the rest of the camp.

Lou trots at your side, tongue lolling as you walk past Pearson’s wagon and towards the other side of camp.

You can see Kieran, standing by the other horses and tending to them like they were his own kind, and you feel a bit of pity for him. The poor centaur was all alone, his herd killed prior to his time in the gang. You knew he ran with the O’Driscolls, right before you came along, and that Arthur had caught him when they were held up in Colter, having caught wind of Colm and his myths being in the area.

The gang expected Kieran to share his morals, that he would run off and uphold the man’s views of humanity— meaning, it was to be destroyed.

But Kieran, he was a pure soul, sticking to the horses and avoiding the others in camp. You still remember how they had hitched him to a tree, whipped at him and refused to give him water.

His flanks are still covered in healing marks, some of which that have scarred, but he did not meet their existence with a desire for vengeance. You knew he loved the Van Der Linde gang, despite all the hell it gave him. He was timid, and he never once aimed to hurt you when you arrived. If anything, he only sought companionship, as most centaurs did.

He was looking for that supposed herd, a place to belong.

Upon catching sight of you, Kieran waves in your direction, his lips splitting with a smile as you wave back. But, he quickly goes back to the horses, brushing away at their coats and talking to them as though they could respond back.

Out of everyone here, Kieran was one of the few myths you truly tolerated and liked entirely. Jack was given, as he was so innocent, and while Sadie despised humans and avoided you after what happened to Jake, her chosen, during the time you all were in Colter, she was nothing but a force to be reckoned with. Then again, little else was expected from a Valkyrie such as herself.

As for everyone else? . . .

A crash emerges from Dutch’s tent, and you watch as Molly storms out, her voice shrill and loud. At your side, Lou growls, darting behind your legs.

You have to cover your eyes, noticing for a brief second that her head isn’t covered, and you can hear the telltale hissing emanating from her.

“You might as well be completely dead, Dutch!” her Irish drawl cutting as she shouts, “You’re a damn bastard, cold as ye are heartless!”

“Ah now, my princess,” you hear Dutch sneer as he steps from out of his tent, his pale skin catching in the moonlight before you avert your gaze again, “You should know better than anyone it stopped beatin’ a long time before you came along.”

Molly curses, her breath hitching as you hear her stomp off, and you frown from where you were staring towards your feet.

“She’s gone. No need to worry about yours turning to stone,” Dutch hums, flicking the collecting ash off of the end of his cigar.

You look back up, finding the man’s black eyes landing on you. You shiver as you see him smile, his white fangs glistening in the moonlight and causing you to shiver.

He saunters forward, his tongue touching the tip of one of his fangs before he gets close enough that you can smell the copper scent he carries with him as he stops a foot away from you.

“I must say, some women are not as pleasurable in my company as you are, miss,” Dutch smiles.

Taking a step back, you frown, your stomach rolling a bit in disgust, “I’ll make sure that I’m not, then.”

Dutch opens his mouth to reply with some other sweet worded line, but he doesn’t get the chance to utter it. Instead, a low growl cuts him off, and you hear Lou bark in response.

“Oh, now I’ve gone and pissed off the wolf,” Dutch grins, turning to where Arthur approaches, his red eyes meeting Dutch’s own in a challenge, “Say, Arthur, you still in that mood of yours?”

“Seems like you need to feed soon,” Arthur comments, his eyes no leaving Dutch as he moves, setting a hand on his hip as brings his cigar up to his lips with the other, “You always tend to get a bit mouthy when you’re hungered.”

Dutch chuckles on his exhale, and you wince at the smell of his cigar smoke as Arthur subtly moves closer to you, “My my boy, the moon has got you all sorts of twisted these past few days.”

“You’re not the only one who’s got a bite on them,” he warns, and Arthur finally comes up close enough to somewhat put himself between you and Dutch, “Now if you’d excuse us.”

Dutch is still chuckling as he watches you leave, a smirk playing on his lips and his eyes never once leaving you as Arthur practically drags you away.

The werewolf’s grip is a little tight as he walks you past his tent and further down the riverbank, more towards where the clearing ends and the trees begin to thicken. Lou follows faithfully at your side, his tag wagging as he looks between you both with a whine.

It isn’t until the campfires are mere blips of light in the distance that Arthur stops, letting out a pained breath as he goes to settle on a fallen tree.

Lou immediately bomb rushes him, setting in on the man with happy licks and whines. It seems to entertain him a bit, earning a small chortle and a smile to appear as Arthur reaches a hand down to pet your mutt lovingly.

It would be precious if your mind still wasn’t on what just happened.

“What the hell has gotten into him?” you ask.

Sighing, Arthur taking his hands and rubbing behind both of Lou’s ears as he replies, “He hasn’t fed in a few weeks, Rabbit... He hasn’t been able to.”

“So you’re sayin’ he’s tryin’ to feed from me—”

“He doesn’t truly mean to,” Arthur says in some defense, “He can’t help it. The thirst he feels grows with each passin’ day. And you, you’re the only one he’s been around in a while that could sate it. Figures he’d make a move sooner or later.”

“That ain’t a good thing.”

“I ain’t sayin’ it is,” he tells you, and you notice that he is still sweaty and looking as he did a few nights before, “You know Dutch doesn’t mean it. He respects humans, at least in the sense that he doesn’t wanna harm them. He’s been that way since he was turned back in Pennsylvania when it was still just a colony... There’s just no way he could properly feed as he usually does. With the Pinkertons after us as they are, and with us bein’ down in Lemoyne. It would be a death sentence if he went out to charm someone and drink from ‘em. They’d know immediately we were here and come for us.”

“But he’s gotta do somethin’ before he really can’t control himself,” you huff, looking out towards the expanse of the lake to your side, “We really couldn’t afford him bein’ so hungered that he’d run into Rhodes to feed.”

“I know,” Arthur’s hands fall away from Lou, and the coonhound settles at his feet, looking up to him, “It’s just another damn thing I gotta figure out and deal with... I was about to go catch Molly when I heard him tryin’ to charm you.”

“Trust me, it wasn’t workin’,” you say, not missing the way Arthur’s lips tick up at the corners, “But I’m not sure where Molly ran off to... She was quite upset.”

“She usually is. And she can be, as long as she doesn’t storm off without coverin’ up,” Arthur runs a hand over his face, “I’m dealin’ with nothin’ but fools here...”

You settle next to Arthur on the log, and you look to him. Your hand itches to reach out and touch him, the urge the same as it was your first night here at Clemens Point, but you know better than to listen and give into it. You can tell that it would only be met with the same reaction as before, especially with the way Arthur seems to tense at your proximity.

“You okay?”

“I’m peachy,” the monotone sarcasm in Arthur’s voice makes you frown, and when he catches sight of your expression, he sighs, looking out towards the lake in front of you both, “I told you... Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem it...”

“I promise I am,” he looks at you, and when your eyes meet his, your frown only furrows, “But you don’t believe me, do you?”

“Your eyes haven’t changed back since we got here,” you tell him.

Brows pinching, Arthur jerks his head away, his voice low, “It’s because of the moon...”

“ _Bullshit,_ ” you hiss, and you don’t miss the way Arthur somewhat winces at the venom in the word, “You’ve never been like this, and I met you _on_ the full moon. You look like you’re sick, shiverin’ and sweatin’ as you are. I’m _worried._ ”

“Don’t be,” he murmurs.

“Well I’m gonna be until somethin’ changes for the better,” you huff, and as you take in the sight of his jacket, you snort.

“What?”

“I have no clue why you’re wearin’ that damn thing when it’s as hot and muggy as it is,” you say, “Sometimes I have to convince myself it’s worth it just with gettin' dressed.”

A choked noise escapes Arthur at your words, but when you look back at him, he seems relatively composed. Even as he pulls the sleeves further down his hands, attempting to subtly adjust them.

Getting suspicious, you move your hand closer until you’re able to yank his jacket back.

And what it reveals has you gasping.

Arthur looks pale as he glares, working his sleeves back over his raw wrists and the bands of metal you know he should not be wearing.

“You’re wearin’ _silver?”_ you ask, scandalized, “Arthur, that’s not—”

“I can’t afford to shift right now. It keeps the wolf at bay, just a little,” he mutters, “It ain’t gonna kill me. It’s like a bee sting, Rabbit, long as I don’t keep ‘em on for longer than I intend.”

Worry gets the better of you ask you ask, “And how long is that?”

“Till the full moon is over,” he whispers, “I can bear until then.”

“You promise?”

Smiling softly at your pushing, he nods, “Promise, Rabbit...”

You watch the water roll on itself, with the frogs croaking nearby and the wind gentle against your skin. It carries the scent of the campfire with it.

“You know, a few months ago, I would’ve been terrified about anythin’ remotely like this.”

“Like what?”

“This gang, even just sittin’ next to you,” you hum, shaking your head, “My parents told me any myth was gonna either change me or kill me, yet here I am.”

Your words have Arthur silenced for a minute, and you think he doesn’t know what to say until he whispers, “I thought humans were as dangerous as they made us out to be for the longest time... Never thought I’d be able to sit next to one and talk to them about it.”

“Well, I’m just a pleasant surprise, aren’t I?” you ask, smiling and looking at him.

His eyes are on you, and your smile somewhat falters at the look on his face. It’s nothing you’ve seen yet, and the way his eyes look upon you, filled with some emotion you have yet to label that has your breath catching in your throat.

But as unexpected as the moment it is, it is just as fleeting, with Arthur looking away, nodding.

“That you is.”

Blinking, you look back towards the lake as Lou jumps up onto the log, filling the small space between you and lying down, yawning.

You both go to pet him at the same time, your hands brushing each other as they accidentally meet. It feels like electricity between you both, and Arthur all but rips his hand away, chest vibrating with the rumble that escapes him as you still.

Lou’s ears perk, and he whines softly, laying his head onto his paws as you look at Arthur in bewilderment.

“Arthur—”

The man stands, not uttering another word as he walks away, going further into the forest and disappearing in its disarray of trees.

Your eyes still linger to where he was lost to the shadows, the hand on your skin still tingling.

 

 

 

 

**\---**

_The ride goes on for a while, and you reach a camp somewhere near Blackwater during the dead of night._

_The man’s name is Arthur, that much you have learned, but otherwise, he keeps a tight lip. You can tell he doesn’t fully trust you, even with your position._

_He could easily kill you right then and there, and no one would know to come looking. And yet, he seems so hesitant around you, as though you were made of glass, or that you were as sharp as one of its shattered edges._

_His caution worried you a bit, especially as you came upon the camp he spoke briefly of._

_Immediately upon your arrival, you could tell the other myths there reacted instantly._

_A draug is the first to catch sight of you, his gray and scarred over skin immediately noting your attention as he raises a carbine out of reflex. His milky irises land to you, not leaving even as Arthur dismounts and approaches him._

_“It’s okay, they’re with me.”_

_“You don’t bring back humans,” the draug says in a scratchy voice, readying his carbine._

_“Yeah, well, I did this time, so put the damn gun down before I kill you for good,” Arthur growls._

_The draug relents some, still eyeing you worriedly despite his gun lowering to his side._

_“Where’s Dutch?”_

_“Tent,” the draug says as you get off of your horse, “But he needs to feed. Not sure if you wanna take them by.”_

_Arthur curses, “What about Hosea?”_

_“He’s down by the river, needed to blow off some steam.”_

_Arthur nods, and he comes back over to you, “Come on.”_

_The draug watches you both leave, and you step closer to Arthur._

_“Why didn’t he—”_

_“He doesn’t hunger for human flesh like you think he does,” Arthur tells you, “He eats raw meat, but nothin’ that never had a name or family lookin’ for it. If he manages his hunger, then he’s just like you, apart from appearance.”_

_You swallow, thinking over Arthur’s words as you head to another thicket of woods nearby._

_This time, however, you're met by something else. Despite your reaction of fear at the silver eyes you find peering at you from the shadows, Arthur calls out a gruff greeting._

_“Hey, Charles.”_

_This time, it’s a skin-walker, clad in thick clothes as he approaches, a shotgun in hand. You stand behind Arthur, using him almost like a shield as the skin-walker, Charles, eyes you nastily._

_“Why did you bring them here?”_

_“You know me, I didn’t bring them here for no damn reason,” Arthur huffs, and you tremble behind them, “It was either this, or they were gonna be killed.”_

_“They could get us killed just by being here.”_

_“I know that better than anyone,” Arthur hisses, and he shakes his head, “We’re gonna go see Hosea. See what we can do.”_

_“Who am I to stop you?” Charles asks, standing back, but still watching you venomously._

_You pass him, sticking close to Arthur as you work through the trees, all but shaking._

_“He won’t hurt you neither,” Arthur assures you once you’re out of earshot, “He doesn’t like humans. Hates them, actually, but it’s not misplaced... His tribe was recently killed by hunters before he came to us.”_

_Breathing, you murmur, “That’s... that’s awful.”_

_“It’s a common thing for us,” Arthur explains as you come upon the river, his eyes searching the banks as he pulls you behind him, “But he won’t take it out on you. Least, not in the way that’ll get you killed or changed. Charles isn’t like that.”_

_“Well, he looked like he wanted to shoot me.”_

_“He only has a weapon because he’s on guard duty,” Arthur tells you as he pulls you, going the opposite direction of the river’s flow as you hear a muted noise in the distance, “Otherwise, the only thing you’d be intimated by is that sour look of his.”_

_“I sure hope so...”_

_Arthur says nothing more, he just continues to pull you with him. Together, you move a good distance up the riverbank until you reach a clearing._

_You’re about to ask what you’re looking for when out of nowhere, a large plume of flame flashes across the water. You jump, all but nearly darting away while Arthur watches it impassively, going out as quickly as it came._

_“What was—”_

_“That’s Hosea.”_

_You look to Arthur as though he’s gone mad as he drags you in the direction of the fire, and your eyes land upon a massive beast._

_A dragon— a _god damn dragon_ is there, as large as a house it is, its silver scales twinkling under the moon as it catches sight of you both. _

_You had heard of them occasionally as a child, about how only a few existed, maybe a few hundred or so, being one of the rarer myths to come across with how well they could hide among humans._

_“Hosea,” Arthur calls out to it, “I need to talk to ya.”_

_The dragon rumbles, the sound deep and vibrating in the air, reaching to your core despite the distance between you both. And then, it rears up its head, letting out a large burst of flame that engulfs itself. You close your eyes, trying to ignore the burning heat of it as it does so._

_But, as quick as it came, it was done, and you open your eyes as you feel the cool breeze of the night once again caress your flesh. And there, standing where the dragon once was, is an old man pulling a large shotgun jacket over himself, beaming as he steps towards you both._

_“Look what the wolf dragged in—”_

_“Hosea,” Arthur says with a tone, and the dragon chuckles at him._

_“No need to snip, Arthur. I’m merely pokin’,” Hosea stops a foot in front of you both, his eyes landing onto yours, “So, a human. Not somethin’ I’d ever see you bring back.”_

_“This ain’t nothin’ like Mary,” there is a bit of warning in Arthur’s words, and at its emergence, Hosea holds his hands up in mock surrender, “I only brought them here because she would’ve died had I not done anythin’.”_

_“Is that so?”_

_As the dragon regards you, you stutter out, “T-The Del Lobo’s, they attacked my family... K-Killed them... Arthur, he... He saved me right before they could get to me.”_

_“Hennigan’s Stead, then. You ran all the way down there?” Hosea asks, glancing at Arthur._

_“It’s the full moon. I’m a werewolf. Is it really that surprisin’?”_

_“No no, just had no idea you liked to travel so much,” Hosea hums, and then he sighs, picking at the sleeve of his worn shotgun coat, “But this complicates things.”_

_“You think I don’t know that?”_

_“I know you do, better than most,” Hosea adds, “But Dutch has yet to feed, and you know that Micah needs to—”_

_“I’ll kill him if he tries,” Arthur growls, “We can just keep them here for a few days, or until we can figure somethin’ else out.”_

_Hosea shakes his head, but sighs, “I have no doubt you’d kill that snake at the first chance you got, but... I suppose we’ll have to.”_

_Then, Hosea looks to you, brow quirking._

_“So. You’re human.”_

_“And you’re a dragon.”_

_Hosea smirks, tilting his head, “Peculiar little thing you picked up there, Arthur.”_

_“You speak of her like she’s a stray rabbit or somethin’.”_

_“Well, I suppose in our midst, she is,” Hosea claps a hand on your shoulder, and begins to walk you away from the river with Arthur at your side, “Come on, we’ll get ya settled.”_

_You follow them into the dark, wondering what you had just found yourself falling into._

 

 

 

 

**\---**

Mostly, being the only human in the Van Der Linde troop was more problematic than anything good.

You remember how everyone treated you initially. The distance, the stares, the overwhelming worry that you were going to betray them. But upon Arthur’s insistence, he managed to garner you some trust from the gang. But even then, it wasn’t much.

They had you sleep on the outskirts of the camp, somewhat for your safety, but mostly for theirs. They had no idea if you were a hunter, or how you felt about any of them, and it was obvious with the way they avoided you. Even Arthur did. And while his disregard was never cold or hateful, it was intentional, and it shirked you just the same.

You were truly the odd one out, with no one but yourself for the first month they allowed you to exist on the edges of their lives.

You did not sleep near them, you did not eat with them, you did not talk to them.

You still remember when Jack approached you, too young to truly comprehend the fractured worlds between myth and human, only knowing the labels stranger and friend.

He had snuck up to you, against his mother’s wishes, and asked you to play.

You wanted to. After all, he was a sweet boy, precious as he was naïve, but you knew better. Knew that if there was one person you did not push any of this with, it was the child of their gang.

When Abigail had caught you telling Jack to go back, she screamed, running over to her son and yanking him away from you.

Bill and the others gathered around, ready to string you up, saying all these nasty things about how they didn’t expect any better of you, that it was only a matter of time before you showed your true colors. You remember how Dutch came to join to the charade, watching on and not stepping in even as Bill, a massive, hairy yeti of a man, grabbed a length of rope and gave his suggestion of the most adequate branch to string you from.

Micah seemed giddy at the prospect, his forked tongue going to lick at his lips as his slit eyes landed on you.

You had been pale, almost crying, begging for your life when Arthur stepped in.

Somehow, the werewolf managed to calm things down. He called off Bill, told Micah to join him, and managed to get everyone else to breathe long enough to realize they were overreacting.

Jack, who had been pushed to the point of tears, was nearly inconsolable, apologizing over and over again for nearly getting you “hurt.”

“ _I only w-wanted to play with Rabbit!”_ he had cried as he wiped at his eyes.

You never forgot the look on Abigail’s face when she realized something.

This hate. This fear.

It went both ways.

Myths, being varied beings and creatures ranging from the deepest waters to lands thousands of miles away, were treated as abominations, completely cast away and ostracized from society from what they were born as, or what they became.

Some relished in their separation. Others reveled in their own power.

Colm and his men, they wanted payback for the war. They wanted myths to become something _more_ than the what lurked in the shadows. You knew a few of them, when captured and tried publicly cursed humanity and prayed for its demise.

And then there were the humans that were monsters in their own right— from the Pinkertons or the Lemoyne Hunters that seemed to be lurking throughout the state, ready to hang anyone who wasn’t like them.

They denied difference, only saw myths as dangerous beasts to be slain.

It was these two sides, like opposing faces of a coin, identically different with the terror they caused and the vile hatred they felt for one another, that had those stuck in the middle fighting for their placement in the black and white of their stances.

For you, you had been raised to hate myths. Your parents speaking of horror stories, warning you of various creatures that felt no empathy or remorse, ones that would kill you and any human they crossed without a moment’s hesitation. You still remember hearing them as you were tucked in at night, stories that should’ve brought you comfort and eased you into sleep causing nightmares and fear when they kept you awake.

And Abigail, a siren with a fae child, paranoid that at any moment her son could be killed, or they could be hunted. Living the life she did before she was born, she knew the world in which she brought him into. Her son — that she carried within her for months, birthed through agony, raised up on the run with no stability or promise of safety — too young to understand or know the danger he was in. And poor Jack, he had no clue. Because for him, he was just a child. Not a fae, not a myth. He was a child before any of that, for he did not know the tragedy lurking within the latter.

And Abigail, she was befitting of that — a mother first and a myth second. The way that she feared for her boy only reminded you of your own parents, of how they tried to protect you in what ways they thought they could.

Because they feared what all parents do — what they know, or have been told, could hurt them.

And for Abigail, that was you.

Because you were human, and they were not.

A human near her son was like fire nearing ice. Damning, it was, to have the one thing she was trying to spare her some from staying just a few feet away from him at camp.

And when he approached you, sought you out and put himself in the one situation she never wanted for him, her nerves got the better of her.

But her face. Her expression.

The way her eyes seemed to shift into understanding when she saw the same look upon your face as Bill wove a noose intended for your neck.

And it was like, suddenly, there were no two sides to speak of.

After that, things began to change.

Something shifted, and not just in Abigail. Arthur wasn’t as standoffish, at least for a while, making sure to check on you and to ensure the others respected you and didn’t attempt another lynching. Lenny helped move you closer to camp, Hosea gave you books of his to read, Pearson began to cook food more suited for your stomach. As for the girls, they warmed up to you as well and quickly became your friends.

Karen, a kitsune, often would tell you about her mischievous antics. For a fox spirit, that was none too surprising, and she often entertained you with internal hijinks against Grimshaw. As for Mary-Beth, a nymph, she often asked about the human world, curious as she was confused. She had lived in the woods most her life, up in the Heartlands some time ago, but they were cleared out. Destroyed for oil fields, they were, and so it did come with a grain of salt. The same went for Tilly, a nixie, but she found her interest in tricking humans who felt were deserving.

You were almost a celebrity to them, talking to them about people. You gave them an insight they could never have.

And for you, they talked more about the gang and overall about myths, offering you the same.

It’s how you learned as much as you have, from the wide range of myths in their posse to the relationships strung up between them.

“ _So Molly n’ Dutch, they work out because Molly turns hearts to stone, but Dutch, his no longer beats. He’s the one man able to look at her and actually see her,_ ” Karen had told you, “ _Same logic goes to Abigail and John. John died and got reanimated by dark magic after being killed by wolves, so he can’t be charmed by Abigail. Still was though, but it was all him. And now they have Jack together._ ”

They explained how to avoid Bill’s temper, to get rid of Uncle’s stench, or how to just in general avoid Micah. They helped you get to where you are now, with so much more understanding for the group you ran with.

But if anything, they helped you out with one soul in particular.

“Have any of you noticed how Arthur’s been actin’ lately?” you ask as you work on laundry with them together, near the edge of camp at the bank of the lake, “He’s been... _off_ since we left Horseshoe.”

“I’ve noticed he’s a bit snappier, but with the full moon bein’ tonight I guess that isn’t entirely unexpected,” Tilly murmurs, batting away a few flies with a scowl from where she lies on the bank of the river as she works the dirty laundry against her scales.

“But Arthur’s never been like that. He’s always had great control.”

“Maybe, but he’s older, and he never took a mate. Well, we were pretty sure he was courtin’ y—”

Pressingly, Mary-Beth glances from you to the kitsune, “ _Karen!”_

“Ah right, sorry,” she rolls her eyes minutely, “He just hasn’t _officially_ takin’ a mate, which at this point is a bit odd for him.”

Karen’s words have you reeling for a moment, and you look to her, baffled, “A what now?”

“A mate,” she tilts her head at you, eyes narrowing, “You never heard of that?”

“No... Humans aren’t really versed in what goes on with you all,” you admit, “I think I learned more in my few months here than I did my whole childhood and then some.”

Tilly snorts, “We figured there’s a lot humans don’t know,” and then, giving you a slight smile, she adds, “No offense to you, of course.”

“Nah, none taken. I know what you mean.”

“Well, a few myths can have what’s called a mate. Usually, animal-based myths have ‘em. Like Hosea, or even myself,” Karen tells you, “Hosea’s used to be another dragon, Bessie. It’s like bein’ married, but... it’s deeper than that. More profound.”

Curiously, you ask, “Do you have a mate, Karen?”

She blushes, turning almost as red as the bottom of her dress as she instantly sputters, “N-No! I don’t!”

“Funny, we all were sure you was entertainin’ the thought with Sean,” Mary-Beth teases as plucks a thorn from one of the lengths of ivy that crests her temple with her crown of flowers, using it then to sew.

“I never have been!”

“Oh, sure you haven’t,” Tilly grins, “And I’m an elf.”

“Wait— so a myth’s mate doesn’t have to be the same kind as them?” you interject.

At your question, Karen loses a bit of her bristle and sighs as Tilly and Mary-Beth share a knowing look and snicker, “Mates don’t have to be anythin’ but the right match. Doesn’t matter if they’re the same, a different type. Hell, mates can even be human.”

“Oh...”

“Mates, they’re important to us. Sometimes, it’s even down the survival of the species. Hosea and Bessie, they were never heard of. Having a mated dragon pair? Especially when it’s hard enough to find one on its own? They were a sight to see, I'm sure.”

Despondently, you murmur, “I’m guessing something happened to her...”

“She was killed,” Karen says easily, but you don’t miss the weight of her words, “It was before any of us stumbled upon Dutch here, when we were runnin’ on our own just tryin’ to survive. It was before a lot of us. Only ones who met Bessie were Dutch, Grimshaw, John, and Arthur.”

“Arthur’s been runnin’ with Dutch for that long?”

“Yeah. Guess no one ever told you, since they just started to warm up,” she makes a sheepish face at that, but continues nevertheless, “But Arthur’s a born werewolf— meanin’ he wasn’t ever human and isn’t turned. He’s been on Dutch’s side for a long while. Since he was young. Dutch found him after his father was caught and killed by Pinkertons.”

“That’s terrible...”

“Well, not really,” Mary-Beth explains with a sheepish expression, “I’ve talked to Arthur about his father... He wasn’t a good myth. Arthur said that he deserved it. His mom was the good one, but she died when he was about Jack’s age or even younger...”

Frowning, you look back to Karen, “How long has he been with Dutch?”

“I think since he was about fifteen. Dutch found him more out west, somewhere in Cholla Springs or roundabout. Took him In, told him about what he wanted, and now here we are,” Karen sighs, “I know it’s only gotten harder on him over the years, especially with how Cornwall has been tryin’ to hunt him down... There’s a little under ten werewolves left now.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, you think back to what Arthur told you — about how he believed that there was more.

You wonder if he knew. Or just simply refused to acknowledge it.

“Why does Cornwall hate him so much?” you seethe, throwing the sopping shirt you have back down onto the washboard as the girls look at you, “I’ve heard nothin’ but this man’s ire for him and no explanation as to why. Why is Arthur the one he really wants dead?”

Mary-Beth and Tilly look at one another, and even Karen seems to shut in some. The girls whisper, and you look between them as they talk, your eyes narrowed as you wait for one of them to speak.

It’s Tilly that does, and she looks rather dispirited compared to her usual giddiness, “Cornwall, he hates myths because of what happened to his daughter, Lily. She was attacked decades ago by a werewolf, and it changed her. Cornwall’s been on a quest for revenge ever since... He’s actually the reason we had the war.”

Your stomach rolls as you glare, “So he blames all of them for what one did?”

“That’s how a lot of it goes,” Mary-Beth murmurs, “Maybe a few myths are bad, and they do deserve what’s comin’ to them. But not all of us are like Colm. A lot of us don’t even have powers to hurt humans, or we can’t even change them into one of our kind. But humans like Cornwall only see the worst of us, and they refuse to acknowledge the rest. It’s why we run with Dutch He only wants us to be free, to not be hunted as we are by humans like Cornwall.”

“And because of him, he’s nearly wiped out werewolves entirely,” Karen finishes, “Arthur, he’s an alpha. He’s meant to have a pack and not be alone, and even then he’s got to have a mate. At his age, I’m sure it’s driven his wolf nuts... I’m not even past twenty-five and my fox is already givin’ me problems. I don’t know how he’s done it...”

“Maybe his mate was Mary?” you suggest.

Shaking her head, it’s Mary-Beth that denies such a claim, “He loved Mary, but you know when it’s your mate. Some myths have bonds similar to a mating one, but the mating is the most intimate of all. It’s like soulmates, as the humans call it. But’s not just pick and choose or somethin’ you can have more than once. Mary, she was someone that Arthur cared for and loved. But she was not his mate...”

“How do you know?”

“Usually, if one of a mated pair dies, so does the other. Or, they manage to live, but not as they did before,” quietly, Karen adds, “It’s why Hosea gets as sick as he does... He’s never been well after Bessie died.”

You think about the old myth then, about how sometimes he would cough, or he couldn’t use fire without feeling pain. For a dragon, it was nearly a death sentence, and you only thought until now it was the curse of age and passing time that was causing such a thing.

“If Mary was Arthur’s intended mate, her death would’ve affected him more than it already did, and on a physical level. She was special, but not in that way. She was in her own.”

Nodding, you hum, “So is that why Arthur is actin’ the way that he’s actin’?”

“Maybe. He’s got great control, but he ain’t perfect... Guess we gotta see how he is come tonight... Say, Rabbit, could you take these clothes and hang them up to dry for us? Grimshaw about loses her mind anytime we walk away from laundry, and the last thing we need is a banshee screamin’ at us.”

Nodding in understanding, you stand, going to grab the woven basket of damp clothes that Tilly hands over to you.

“Yeah, I’ll get ‘em taken care of.”

“We set the clothesline up a bit further out from the horses,” she calls to you as you begin to walk away, “We may live with Uncle, but we don’t wanna smell like him!”

From across the camp, you can hear the bigfoot’s affronted guffaw, and you chuckle as you head off.

While you walk, you think about Karen’s words, wondering what she meant exactly with all that she told you.

You’d never heard of mates among myths, and you had no idea such a thing existed. But it made sense, comparing even just the concept of werewolves to the ones in the wild. You remember reading stories of two wolves that lived in the woods together their whole lives, scaring the townsfolk and creating a legend up near Tall Trees. It was one of your favorite stories growing up.

But applying it to Arthur... You never saw him too much, and when you did, he was always reserved with you. Pointedly keeping distance, refraining from touching you. You knew you have some effect on him at times since you were human, but that was par for the course with some members of the gang. With Dutch, you getting a small cut was a hardship. With John, he had to eat more meat to distract himself from you.

And with Arthur, he seemed to be affected the most by your scent, especially whenever you messed with the black neckerchief he gave to you.

The same one that you carry now, and fiddle with as your mind presses on further.

You remember the night he saved you some months ago when he first approached you while shifted. You remember the feel of his breath, the cold press of his nose to the juncture of your neck and collar.

He’s never been that forward since apart from one other moment, but you always catch his nostrils flaring at you, and there have been times you have seen him holding his breath when you interacted.

But it was almost as if he hated your scent at times, with the way he tried to avoid it. It made you worry, and you talked to Hosea about possible ways to mute it down, as he was an expert in helping the others in the gang cloak themselves from the humans.

He had offered an herb mixture and a small pamphlet with the ingredients. You still remember it well, and you had seen the illustrations of the flowers it called for from Bulrush to Hummingbird Sage.

But most of all, you remember the little note there, telling you to avoid a flower by the name of Wolfsbane. You had no idea what it was, but it was a simple illustration and description there beside it, with it being a dark purple flower with buds and petals resembling that of an iris. You’re not sure why Hosea made sure to make note of it, as you’d never seen it growing anywhere. But it wasn’t like any other herb, almost like a version of oleander sage for lycanthropes. It made the task a bit daunting anytime you were able to collect herbs with Charles watching over you.

But there was a small instruction, just in case. Burn it, turn it to ash to ingest it. That helped reverse the effects, apparently. It was a reassurance, knowing that if you did happen to come across it, that you could fix the mistake. So you picked with less worry, and tried to gather the ingredients whenever you could to work on the remedy.

It seemed to help, and Arthur was a little bewildered the first time you applied it. He seemed to scent the air subconsciously a few times, unknowing he was doing so until he caught himself, his eyes landing on you.

But he didn’t say anything. And as long as he didn’t act as you did in fact smell like Uncle, you were fine with it.

Otherwise, Arthur was just as strange as ever, distant and holding you at arm’s length, despite moments where you two seemed to dance around one another.

You weren’t sure what to make of it. Any of it, as you reached the lines strung up by the girls some distance away from camp, and you set the basket down at your feet.

It was definitely something to think about, and you decided to not linger on it for long, grabbing one of the washed shirts and going to hang it up.

But you never got the chance.

The basket tips over at your feet as a body comes up from behind you, and a clothed hand slips over your mouth, and you cry out as a strange feeling begins to wash over you as you breathe in an odd scent.

Your eyelids feel weighted, and you blink sluggishly, falling against whoever is at your back with your entire weight. Rope slips around your ankles and wrists, you begin to protest weakly until you nearly collapse from your efforts.

And after they pick you up, carrying you till they are able to throw you onto the back of their horse, the entire world fades to black.

 

 

 

 

**\---**

_Tonight is the full moon._

_Overhead, the storm wouldn’t let you know, with how thick the clouds are as Colter is drowned inch by inch in the snow, the wind whistling and cutting against your skin._

_You’re in a cabin on the outskirts of the camp, almost near where they are holding Kieran in their attempts to starve him into questioning, and you were under their own version of house arrest after the mess they left in Blackwater. You know they trust you as much as the centaur, despite you being here longer than him and that he was an O’Driscoll no less._

_But you were human, and that was just as bad, if not worse, than anything Kieran could ever manage to be. Because, unlike you, he was a myth, and that meant more to the Van Der Linde troop than his original alliance._

_Besides, with the way the Pinkertons had found them, they suspected that you had said or done something. Even though you never left camp, or never walked on without two pairs of eyes watching your every step, it didn’t matter. You were suspect ever since Arthur brought you back._

_And the poor werewolf, he faced so much grievance over bringing you to the gang. While Hosea seemed to be almost on the same page as Arthur, sending this odd looks to the werewolf that had Arthur rolling his eyes and quipping to him, the rest of the gang were not as charmed as the dragon._

_Micah, in particular, was the nastiest, hissing to Dutch about you selling them out or betraying them. To the basilisk, the only good human was a dead one, and he made sure to notify you of his preference. His words had an effect on the vampire, as well as the others in the gang._

_So when Bill came to give you food, he about slapped it onto the floor, cursing at you past his thick teeth and heading out into the cold with a bit of warning._

_“You best watch yourself, Rabbit, thems wolves prowlin’ in these woods.”_

_At the time, you had no idea what the warning really was until it grew dark._

_Outside, the storm was still raging, wild and loud as you shuddered against the decrepit cot. The fire in the hearth was weak, barely offering any warmth as you shivered pitifully against yourself._

_You missed the heat back home, how even during the chill of night, it was nothing compared to this biting, horrid thing._

_Wallowing in your misery, you almost miss the scratching sound upon your door, but it wasn’t until a low, rumbling growl resonated through the wood that you realized something was amiss._

_Just like in the barn with the last full moon, you can see where a figure outside blocks out the light from the lantern strung up on the porch, and your breath catches in your throat. At the bottom corner, the scratching sound begins again, and you pull your quilt tighter around yourself as the beast outside grows frustrated with the apparent blockade._

_“A-Arthur?” you ask, quiet and a bit scared when the noises stop, and everything seems to still, “Arthur, is that you?”_

#####  **THUMP**

_The door groans against its rusted hinges, and you sprawl up the length of your bed, your heart racing as your distress grows._

_This time, instead of a growl, there is a whine at the door. Needy and pleading, and it reminds you of Lou whenever he wanted scraps at dinner._

_“Arthur?”_

#####  **thump**

_The sound is softer this time, and another whine sounds from behind the door, and you find yourself answering to it._

_Your feet fall softly against the floor as Arthur begins to paw at the wood again, scratching harder as he hears you approach._

_A part of you is scared, knowing that you would be letting a werewolf inside this cabin when the gang didn’t seem too interested in your safety, but you know how easily Arthur could kill or hurt you if that’s what he wanted. You’ve seen him as a wolf — you’ve seen what’s he’s capable of. You are acutely aware of just how simple it would be for the myth to have broken the door down and done whatever it was that he intended._

_So doing this, it truly didn’t matter in the end. You suppose this would just make it easier._

_Pulling back the door, there on the slanted porch of your appropriated cabin is Arthur, shifted into his wolf. His eyes glow that familiar shade of red, and you see his hulking form lumber in._

_Your breath puffs before you in white clouds, mirroring the ones that leave Arthur’s snout as he sniffs at you, all but burying his muzzle into his side._

_“I promise I don’t intend for this to cause offense, but please don’t eat me,” you whisper._

_At your words, the werewolf almost chortles, making an odd sound as he goes over to the bed, jumping up onto the cot and lying down, looking at you all the while._

_Cautiously, you go to shut the door, blocking the offense of snow that was trying to gain entry alongside Arthur. And as it shuts into place, you take an abated breath, looking over to the massive wolf that seems to be waiting on the cot to your side._

_You stand there hesitantly, unsure of what to do or say. If anything, you shuffle awkwardly, pulling at the quilt around your shoulders and shaking some from the bitter temperature in the air._

_Apparently, this isn’t what Arthur wants, as he moves in a flash, nearly having you jump as he does onto the floor as he approaches you. Stilling, your eyes trained on him as he comes up, and his mouth opens, flashing those sharp, white fangs in your direction before he gently grabs hold onto the edge of your blanket and tugs just as tenderly._

_Following his lead, he guides you back to the bed, and you feel some of the tension leave your shoulders as you sit down on the edge. Now satisfied with your placement, Arthur hops back up onto the bed, and then circles around you until he is able to lay behind your back, nearly taking up all of the room on the mattress. You’re confused about his placement until he grabs ahold of the blanket again, guiding you down until you are lying against the heat and plush of his stomach._

_Then, even more to your surprise, he begins to lick at your face, gentle and non-demanding, giving enough leisure to each lap of his tongue to give you the option to pull away at any moment._

_And despite your initial apprehension and the shock of his actions, you don’t._

_“And to think, Bill warned me that you’d be nasty come tonight,” you huff._

_At your words, Arthur growls lowly, but you know, somehow, it isn’t directed at you. Maybe your hint is at the way he settles his head onto your lap, his red eyes meeting yours in a wordless protest of such a thing._

_“You’re nothin’ but a cuddle wolf,” you chuckle lightly, and you raise a hand with some hesitancy, looking between it and Arthur as you ask, “Is... is it okay if I—”_

_The feeling of Arthur’s fur against your fingers has you blinking, as the wolf meets your touch eagerly. He rumbles deeply, chest vibrating at your back as he goes rubs against it, eyes closing and his mouth parting to pant ever so lightly. He’s so soft, his fur warm and airy, and not wiry as you initially thought. And, taking great leisure with his permittance, you move your hand down into his scruff, scratching through the fur and having him wag his tail behind you at the ministrations._

_For a werewolf that you know has killed men, and for a myth that has been described as nothing but a feral beast, he acts more like a touch-starved puppy than anything else._

_You snort haggardly, feeling warm for the first time since the gang dragged you up here on that mountain._

_How long you pet him for is lost to you, with nothing mattering more than the gentle glide of your fingertips through his dense coat or the timid noises he makes at your attention. You two simply exist together — two outcasts from different, entropic worlds, converging into one state of desperate connection._

_Sleepily, you look at Arthur, at how he has settled his head onto his large paws, his eyes half-lidded as you stroke his ear in your habitual pattern, and you think to all the times your parents and any human you met in your life told you differently._

_Werewolves. Disgusting creatures that only posed as a man, but were beasts at heart. Driven by bloodlust, unable to control themselves. Eager to destroy humanity through death or changing them into one of their own._

_But Arthur, despite his usual off-standing behavior and his rational distrust, had fought harder for you than anyone else had in your life. He saved you, gave you a place in the gang, even if they still had yet to trust you. And despite his own grievances with humans, at the way avoided them and wanted nothing to do with any single one of them._

_For some reason, in light of all that, he chose to save you, help you, and protected you when the need arose._

_And for no reason._

_You meant nothing to him when you met, and now, you mean almost nothing to him still. A stranger with a familiar face kept at a distance is what you were. And yet, here he is, during one of the most vulnerable nights for his kind, letting you absently trace unknown constellations into his fur with more trust than the world ever gave him._

_You have no idea why Arthur came to you tonight, why he sought you out as he did. It doesn’t make sense, especially with how he behaves when he isn’t shifted._

_Your fingers grow sluggish and uneven with their motions, and when you don’t keep up the same repetition, Arthur opens his eyes, those red irises of his locking onto you as your eyelids flutter over your own._

_“I...” you yawn, feeling sleep tugging at you now, “I didn’t tell the Pinkertons anythin’... They think I did, ‘cause they say I’m scared...”_

_Arthur lifts his head, his body growing tense underneath you as you curl into him, your hands splaying out into his fur._

_“But I don’t have any reason to be...”_

_And you fall asleep like that, with your fingers stilled from where they were carding through his fur, and the wolf at your back watching over you._

 

 

 

 

**\---**

Consciousness comes sluggishly.

Your head feels as though it’s somehow both filled with a tenuous sheer of cotton and cumbersome mass of lead at the same time, muffled and pressured as your eyes crack open.

The world is unable to focus, passing over in fractured and blurry imagery as you try to regain your grasp, your body almost feeling as though it were detached from you as you attempt to move.

The rough grit of rope binding you at your wrists and ankles keeps you from being able to properly sit up, the muscles on your sides protesting as you weakly trash about, your panic now setting in as your brain is able to process the situation for what it is.

“Ah, seems someone is finally awake.”

The drawl that speaks to you is a familiar one, and you find your eyes shifting to the source of it from across the way. Beside a campfire that roars with life and light kneels the man, greasy-haired and as seemingly crooked as the bridge of his nose. He messes with the flames with what looks to be an iron rod, the embers swirling around his meddling madly as he rearranges the engulfed wood. As you stare, recognition causes your eyes to widen some, especially as those slit pupils find lock onto you.

“Micah,” you breathe, your tongue moving on its own accord.

“Good observation skills, pet,” Micah sneers, dropping his poker and stomping in your direction, “Tell me, human, you know what I do to pieces of shit like you?”

Shivering, you cower underneath the man as he towers above you, his gray irises training on you as he nears you, his forked tongue passing over his lips hungrily.

“I kill ya,” he hisses, and you suddenly find your throat in his grip, his fingers squeezing and cutting off your breath with an unnatural amount of steady strength as he lifts you, your legs dangling and kicking out from where he’s hoisted you a few feet above the ground, “I hate everythin’ that you are. How _weak_ you can be. Don’t know why Dutch allowed that damn wolf to keep ya around. I’ve never seen anythin’ more pathetic in my life.”

He drops you, and you land harshly as you sputter, your throat burning and failing at how your body begs for breath as you cough and choke.

Micah makes a face, and he steps away, walking back over to the fire to go back to his prodding.

“But, I suppose you have some use. I’m not the only one that the Pinkertons have made a huge fuss over. After all, in their minds, you’re a slave to that fool Van Der Linde.”

“I— I ain’t n-nothin' of the sort,” you grit hoarsely, your throat aching as you speak.

That gets a snort out of the basilisk, and he shakes his head, “Don’t matter none. Not when they don’t care for truth. For them, the only good myth is a dead one,” he spits at the ground as he curses, “You’re their number one priority. A human held hostage by myths— it’s quite the tale they’ve spun on that one. Everyone from New Austin to New Hanover has heard about the poor human woman bein’ kept against her will by a litany of myths. But their favorite thing to do is say you’re the wolf’s. The bitch’s bitch, as they call ya.”

Paling, you still from where you’re sprawled on the ground, and at your reaction, Micah breaks out into a laugh, shaking his head.

“Oh, and they’re right about that. Maybe not of Dutch usin’ you to feed, or for that draug to eat, but there’s no doubt you are that bastard Arthur’s whore,” he glares, his eyes as hateful as they are electric, “I can smell him all over you— his claim.”

“W-What?”

Micah glares at the neckerchief lining your collar and snorts, “You humans are dull as rusted iron. It’s beyond me as to how you’ve survived alongside us this long,” Micah about shoves a log out of the fire with how hard he hits it with the poker.

“I’m not. . . Arthur’s not—”

“You’re gonna argue with a myth on this one, let alone one that has seen him to such a thing?” he asks, regarding you as though you were the village idiot, “I took you for a reason, pet. It ain’t just ‘cause you’re human. I have a personal investment in this, ya see.”

Watching as he stands again, you murmur, “And that is? . . .”

The end of the supposed poker emerges, and your sore throat goes dry as you see what is truly at the end. Micah snickers, watching as you put one and one together as he approaches.

“Arthur doesn't care much about what I prefer to do, even with humans vyin’ for his head on a pike. Nor does Dutch, with his fantasy that we can somehow get back to the freedom of the seventeen-hundreds. I’ve tried to get them to see reason, but I guess there’s not much you can do for the blind,” each footfall is damning as Micah approaches, “So, I figure, what’s nothin’ but a little incentive to get them both on the same page as me?”

You attempt to pull away, but it doesn’t matter. Micah is upon you in mere seconds, holding you down easily with one hand as you futilely fight against him. The smirk pulling at his lips is as cruel as it is sadistic, and you begin to scream as you realize what he is to do.

Using part of the handle, Micah moves the neckerchief back from your neck almost tenderly, as though he doesn’t want it damaged any as he exposes your skin, his lips curling in a feral way as you cry in protest beneath him.

As for what you initially thought was a poker is something more — a metal brand, glowing white hot and damningly as Micah aims it at your collar.

“N-N-No, _please—”_

“Beggin’ ain’t gonna do _nothin’!”_ Micah roars, and without hesitation, he brings down the brand, pressing it against your flesh underneath your right collarbone with force.

And as you scream in utter agony, feeling the metal sear your skin with an indescribable amount of scalding pain and heat, he laughs maniacally.

“Oh, that’s it! You feel that, human?! I want you to remember this! I want you to think of this moment every time you see this damn scar! How it felt, how you got it!” he shoves the brand down onto you, forcing and holding you against the ground as the metal singes your skin, hot steam rising about it just as angrily as you wail, “This is only a fraction of the misery that you put us myths through! And you can’t even manage to stomach it!”

Adrenaline takes control, and your brain is hazed over in a fog as Micah finally lifts the brand. Everything almost feels numb, and you faintly feel the sting against your chest as you breathe hollowly, lying on the ground as the world spins and Micah leers above you.

“Like I said, god damn _pathetic._ ”

You faintly flinch as the brand lands beside you in the dirt, your head lolling to the side and where it rests beside you. And as you look further on, past the dimming, orange glow of the iron that marred your skin, you see dozens of bodies, lives ended and bodies left to rot until their expanse is lost to the dark. And on each of their bodies is the same brand as the one that just marked you.

“It may have cost Colm a few good men, but I’m willing to pay that price if I’m gettin' the war I want. ‘Specially when Arthur comes to find you, all bruised up with nothin’ but the scent of Pinkertons on ya,” Micah chuckles, and he grabs something at his side, “Say, do you prefer the left or right, pet?”

Your head rolls over slowly to meet Micah’s wild gaze, and when you do, it’s just at the right moment to see him bringing the butt of a carbine down towards your face.

And the world is once again lost to black.

 

 

 

 

**\---**

_Something has changed between you two._

_That night in Colter, after Arthur came to you and spent the full moon in your cabin, the man has been... distant._

_More so than usual._

_He ignored you when you called out to him, he spent as much time as he could away from you. Whereas before such things were caused by indifference or happenstance, this time, they are purposeful._

_It hurts a little, to see the one myth that you believed would make running with this lot easier pretend that you almost didn’t even exist, but it’s a concept you’re trying to make peace with as you are holding out on the edge of the gang._

_Now, you’re in Horseshoe, a much smaller area compared to what you all left behind when you fled Blackwater, and it’s more obvious than ever that practically no one wants you there._

_Hosea is still kind, visiting you and occasionally offering up a conversation, but he too is wary. He doesn’t like to talk about certain things, or will pointedly change subjects if you ask certain questions. You understand, as your curiosity can be taken as something as more than just confusion._

_Still, you wonder why you’re still here if the gang doesn’t want you, or when Arthur seems to pale any time he sees you since the full moon that night in Colter. You have no ties here, you have no reason to stay._

_And if the gang was worried about their safety, if they feared you were to run and tell the humans in Valentine about them, what could you possibly manage to do with the way they guarded themselves? All you truly knew was where they were, and their location was a shifty as their demeanor whenever you were around._

_So truly— why are you here exactly?_

_Leaning against the tree your pitiful tent resides by, you look up into the disarray of branches overhead, the fragmented rays of sunlight glittering through the disorder of the shifting leaves. It’s about as coordinated as you feel while the breeze passes through them, rustling them about much like the thoughts that toss up in your mind._

_The gang has been here in Horseshoe for a week or so now, and things show no sign of improving. After Blackwater, when the Pinkertons shortly discovered the gang, doubt grew amongst the myths in Dutch’s gathering like weeds in a prized garden. You knew they suspected you arriving had something to do with it, and while Arthur assured everyone that you were just a human betrayed by your own kind with nothing to return to, you could tell they were suspicious._

_Especially as you grew restless, often overhearing Dutch’s preaching to his choir at night when the sun finally went below the horizon and he could emerge from his tent, about how they were going to escape— a pipedream in which they would garner the freedom they deserved, and escape the prosecution they did not._

_You could hear him from his tent as he spoke, his deep drawl booming and loud, carrying like the wind and just as sweeping as he caught those who were listening up into it. But you could tell there wasn’t a charm in it, there was no drive other than mutual desire and understanding pushing at the back of Dutch’s words. The gang, they only wanted peace, and peace could only be found without humanity, in their eyes._

_So having you in the midst, it was against their very belief. It was against their instincts, against personal promises made to others or themselves. You could tell that many of them have been hunted, or have had their lives ruined by humans at one point or another. The way they looked at you — the depth of their resentment, the complexity of their turmoil — it spoke of nothing but toxicity garnered over time and happenstance._

_You hated it._

_You hated how it felt when they regarded you as the monster._

_You, when you had done or said nothing to them to warrant such hate._

_And you suppose it was no surprise when their pressure finally got you to crack._

_The gang was distracted, all gathered around as Dutch explained the most recent happenings with the Pinkertons, listing various attacks and posts discovered in the area alongside his intentions to try and head further westward, away from the east and the proximity and stronghold it offered to the humans._

_Slipping away was easy enough, as you fell back behind your tent slowly, not fast enough to draw their attention away from Dutch where they were gathered around his tent about twenty feet away. You made sure to walk through the trees, knowing that the usual post outside of camp was brought in to hear Dutch’s lavished plan and words._

_You worked through the trees, following the trail leading out of camp and heading down the hill, following the main road towards the Dakota River as you tried to fight the thoughts that intended to drown you where you stood._

_It wasn’t until you were at the riverbank, your boots submerged up to your ankles in river water that it truly wore on you. You grabbed a few rocks, taking them and throwing them harshly into the river, each marked with a nastier curse than the last. Soon, you were throwing them in tandem, breaking up the habitual flow of the river with the disjointed splash of a stone thrown by your hand._

_And that is how he found you._

_You nearly yelp as you feel yourself get yanked back onto the riverbank, your feet losing their balance on the shifty sogginess of the bank, and you land on your back. The body maneuvering yours follows suit, only to land above you with a heavy noise and squelch of mud._

_Blinking, you have to try and cover your eyes to block out the blinding light of the sun, and you squint as you attempt to take in the face of the person above you._

_“You god damn **idiot**!” _

_The growl in Arthur’s voice is almost as sour as the scowl on his muddied face, and you somewhat cower a little on yourself underneath him._

_“I—”_

_“You think the gang is gonna tolerate you runnin’ off when they think you’ve been tryin’ to talk to the Pinkertons?” he hisses, and you avert your eyes out of shame, “You’re lucky I was comin’ back through here and found you first. Otherwise, ain’t nothin’ I coulda done that could’ve kept ‘em from dealin’ with you how they saw fit like they’ve been wantin’.”_

_The unspoken reality that would’ve been has you shiver lightly, and you swallow, attempting to meet those icy blue eyes with your own._

_“I just wanted space,” you murmur, “I feel like I’m suffocatin’—”_

_Arthur leans down, his grit almost in your ear, “You will if you give them a reason not to trust you.”_

_“Then what do I have to do?” your voice is soft, pleading as it is desperate, “Please, Arthur, I’ll do anythin’.”_

_You stare at him, chest heaving and heart racing. His hands are placed on your wrists, and you feel the way his fingers wrap around your flesh, feeling the sheer fragility of it and the rapid tempo of your pulse underneath. You know he can, because his irises shift from blue to red, and you watch as his head almost drops down to your chest._

_“Shit,” he breathes, growing tense against you with what looks like restraint, “God fuckin’ dammit...”_

_Worried, you speak up, “Arthur—”_

_He lets go of you as though you were made of silver, stepping back and getting onto his feet while you are left reeling in the mud. His breathing is labored, and you can see the way his canines are sharper than usual as he clenches his large hands into fists._

_Sweat collects on his skin, shimmering in the sunlight. It catches on his forehead and along his collar from where his shirt is unbuttoned down to his chest, darkening the hair there and plastering it to his skin as his torso flexes from his near-panting. His eyes, as lurid as they are fixated, seem to focus on where your pulse thrums under the skin of your neck, as tempting of a sight as it is a prospect._

_“Arthur?” you try again, for the first time feeling a bit of unease arise as the werewolf licks his lips quickly, tongue darting out with the hint of wanting a taste as he trembles in front of you._

_He doesn’t speak, but you watch as he shakes, going to his neck to grab ahold of his black neckerchief and pulling it over his head._

_He approaches, almost uncertain, like doing this is something he is warring with himself on until he kneels beside you in the mud. Gently, he takes the neckerchief, his eyes avoiding yours as he slips the soft, dark cloth over your head and looping it around your neck. His fingers linger as he fixes its placement, and a rumble begins to vibrate in his chest as his nostrils flare._

_You’re confused, wondering what is going on with the werewolf when suddenly, you’re being pushed down into the mud, Arthur’s face now buried against the fabric cloying around your neck._

_Heat rushes over you, and your grip onto the werewolf, feeling how his muscles flex harshly under his skin as he forces himself to go no further, his lungs taking deep breaths that leave him shuddering with every inhale._

_But as suddenly as it happened, it ends, with Arthur pulling away and yanking you off of the mud with him without a moment for you to catch up._

_Your cheeks are red, you’re sure, as you feel your flustered nerves offer a wobbliness to your knees as Arthur refuses to acknowledge you._

_“We should get back to camp,” he mutters, voice low and rough in a way you’ve never quite heard it as he begins to walk away._

_“Arthur,” you come up from behind him, grabbing his hand._

_The werewolf stops mid-step, almost as though he had seen Molly uncovered as you hold onto him._

_“Why did you give this to me?” you ask, your free hand going to the neckerchief that rests against your neck, “I don’t—”_

_“You said you wanted them to start warmin’ up to ya,” he grumbles, not looking in your direction, “This was the only way I could think of...”_

_“And that is?”_

_He doesn’t answer, instead going to whistle for his gray shire that grazes nearby before saying, “We gotta get you cleaned up.”_

_“So you’re not gonna tell me...” your brow furrows as his shire dutifully approaches, and you cross your arms._

_“Nah. I could. You just wouldn’t understand.”_

_Arthur mounts up then, fixing himself on the saddle as you fix him with a glare._

_“You could tell me,” you point out._

_“Ain’t no way I could make you understand,” he explains, and then, holds out a hand to you, “Now get your ass on the back of this horse. The last thing I need is someone stumblin’ up on us.”_

_Frustrated, you hit his hand out of the way, earning a small snort from the man as you clamber up onto the back of his massive shire._

_The two of you don’t speak for the short ride back to camp, and you only grow more irritable with the way the mud clings to some of your skin and hardens and cracks along your clothes. Arthur, ever the wild man, seems unbothered by his state of disarray as he enters back into camp through the trail amidst the trees, guiding his lumbering shire to the first hitch as Javier approaches with a carbine in hand for his patrol._

_“What happened to you two, Lobo?” he asks curiously, his eyes narrowing on you, and especially at the neckerchief around your neck until they widen with disbelief._

_“Caught myself a Rabbit,” Arthur jokes, and he hops down off his shire before helping you._

_“So you did,” the chupacabra murmurs thoughtfully, almost regarding you in a new light, “Didn’t know you were huntin’, my friend.”_

_“Didn’t know I was, either...”_

_Guiding you by the small of your back, Arthur pushes you past the other myth whose eyes trail you both shamelessly. You still feel them as you both walk away, and you know the moment that other pairs join them in their curiosity._

_“Ignore ‘em and just keep walkin’,” Arthur tells you against the shell of your ear._

_Glancing to him, you whisper back, “Why are they starin’ as they are—”_

_“My my, Arthur, never thought I’d see the day where my old dog was up to the same tricks,” Dutch’s tenor has you both stopping in your tracks as the vampire approaches, clad in his gloves and hooded overcoat to avoid the sun, “Thought you called things like this off a long time ago, son.”_

_“It ain’t none of your business, Dutch,” Arthur growls in warning, his eyes flashing._

_You look between them as uncertain as you are lost, and as Dutch holds his hands in placation to the werewolf before him, his eyes shift to you, and he shakes his head._

_“Ah, now don’t tell me she don’t know what’s goin’ on—”_

_“ **Leave it** , Dutch.” _

_“Fine,” the vampire lets his hands fall to his sides, but he looks between you and the werewolf at your side with not as much as amusement as before, “But I’m warnin’ you now, Arthur. You go any further, you explain yourself truthfully.”_

_“It ain’t gonna go no further.”_

_“Sure it ain’t,” Dutch huffs, but he walks off back into the depths of his tent._

_Arthur hisses a curse, gruffly taking you over to the back of Pearson’s wagon and to where one of the buckets of water reside. You can see how Grimshaw seems to nod in approval as he grabs one of the rags there, soaking it thoroughly and wringing it out before bringing it up to you._

_“What you doin’—”_

_“Hush up and just let me do this,” Arthur grumbles._

_Your eyes widen a little as he brings up the cloth to your face, gently wiping at your muddied skin despite the tension you see building within and radiating off of the man._

_The water is ice cold, a stark divergence from the pressing heat of Arthur’s hand behind the damp cloth as he wipes away the dried freckles of dirt until he’s satisfied. Your breath slightly warms up as he finishes, dipping the rag and wringing it until the water drips clear and he comes back to continue his work._

_He moves under your chin, sweeping along the line of your jaw and then down onto your throat, your pulse thundering under your skin as his touch lingers. And unlike most times, when the red of his irises invades over their usual shade, you watch it change over like a sunset, transitioning from a beautiful sky blue to twilight’s faded purple before the crimson shade takes hold, and it’s breathtaking._

_His fingers work deftly between the fabric of his gifted neckerchief, and his eyes train on where his hand sweeps over and over at the curve of your collarbone hidden under the expanse of your sun-kissed skin._

_“A-Arthur?” you breathe, and looking at him is like delving into the water after the ice first melts._

_“Rabbit,” he says to you, voice rough as canvas and just as coiling as you feel something in your stomach shift as his hand falls away._

_“W-What are you doin’?”_

_“Cleanin’ mud off ya before Grimshaw has your head,” he explains easily, as though there isn’t some sort of vestige of his lingering touch while he wrings the rag out once more, “Ain’t nothin’ at all.”_

_“It sure don’t feel like just that...” your words are about breathless, and he chuckles at your state of fluster._

_“Think and feel whatever you want,” he murmurs, folding the rag over on the even lip of the barrel and when he glances at you, his eyes are once again that pale shade of blue, “If anyone gives you any more trouble about bein’ here, let me know, okay?”_

_It’s the kindest he’s been since the night he saved you, and the sudden reappearance of his compassion has you tilting your head at him._

_“Okay, but... why do you care again all of the sudden?”_

_His eyes squint, and he goes to grab at his dirtied gun belt, “What’chu mean?”_

_“Nothin’ much, just that after you got me here, you acted like I didn’t exist,” you begin, “You avoid me. You ignore me. You act as though you regret even bringin’ me here. And now, you’re tellin’ me you’re gonna help me stay? After whatever the hell this just was? . . . I just don’t get it.”_

_Arthur’s face pinches, his skin following the fine wrinkles and even scars that time has worn into him over the years, and he clicks his tongue, looking off into the trees as though the aged trunks could offer up a better answer than anything he could come up with._

_“Listen, I get that I’m just a human. But that don’t mean I can’t grasp onto things. I just don’t know about them,” you take a step forward, reaching out a hand but stopping when Arthur’s eyes narrow on you in an almost cold manner, “I... I wanna know more. I want to help if I can. We may be different at the core of things, but that don’t mean we can’t understand one another.”_

_“You really are naïve.”_

_Blinking at his sudden irk of spite, you redact the step that you had taken forward, and you look down to your feet._

_“I think I’d prefer it if you didn’t **mock** me for attemptin’ to get us to exist in the same space together.” _

_“We can’t.”_

_Those words have your head snapping up again, and you see where Arthur scowls in your direction, and you feel your stomach slip._

_“You and I? We’re from two different worlds,” he explains, now taking a step towards you as your heart picks up in tempo, “Myths and humans, we can’t exist together. Ever. It just doesn’t work out because it isn’t meant to. You’re a human, and that’s where anythin’ like that ends.”_

_You meet his ire with your own, and you take a step forward yourself, your brows furrowing, “Oh cut the shit!” you hiss, “All I ever hear about is how everyone wants the other side dead or gone, and they only blame each other for things they’ve done themselves!”_

_“Have you ever watched entire families get slaughtered in the name of supposed purity? Have you ever had to hold someone you cared about in their last moments because they were killed for bein’ tainted just by associatin’ with you?” Arthur growls, and the rest of the camp watches as he nears you, puffing up his chest._

_“I had to watch my family get shot and have everything I’ve known get burned away in just a few minutes just because my parents wouldn’t pay a gang ten dollars,” you spit, your voice breaking some as tears prick at your eyes, “We all get wounded in different ways, Arthur, but we scar just the same.”_

_Arthur looks like he’s about to snap with something else when you beat him to it._

_“You act like you’re the only one to be dealin’ with this, but the entire time I’ve been here you all have done nothin’ but treat me like I’m goin’ to kill all you at the next second. And I sure as shit have to deal with you all actin’ like you’re gonna. For Christ sake, Bill ‘bout lynched me just because Jack asked me if I wanted to play with him! And your solution is to give me a god damn bandana to wear!?” you yell, and out of anger, you take the damned neckerchief off and throw it back at Arthur out of your rage, “How can you tell me to imagine what things like that are like when you fuckin’ do it to me!?”_

_Your back lands against a tree and your breath gets knocked out of you as your eyes lock onto the werewolf that roars in your face, his canines far sharper than what could be remotely human._

_But before anything else happens, Hosea puts a stop to it._

_“Arthur! That’s enough!”_

_Arthur pulls back, his eyes blazing as he stomps away, his chest heaving and his nails extended as he goes, his foot trampling over the neckerchief as he disappears into the trees surrounding the camp._

_Shell-shocked, you numbly blink away tears while Hosea mutters a litany of curses, bending down to pick up the neckerchief. He holds it in his hands, frowning as he brushes the dirt on it off, and eyes it with what looks like an immense amount of pain before he comes back over to you._

_“Come on. Let’s take you back to your tent.”_

_You want to jerk away from Hosea, you want to scream at him. You want to have your lungs and throat turn raw with the way you want to yell at all of them as they watch, cursing at them for every moment they have wrought you nothing but hell._

_But you don’t. You can’t find it within you. Not with the way you remember the feel of Arthur’s hands on your face, or with the way it felt to be trapped against that tree at his mercy._

_“Easy now, just breathe,” Hosea tells you as you stumble alongside him, going to the opposite end of camp to where your tent resides, his hand gently guiding you from your back._

_You manage to get there, all but collapsing down onto the ground in a pathetic heap as Hosea heaves a deep and tired sigh._

_“Arthur, he—” Hosea stops for a moment, considering his words as you weep openly into your hands, “He didn’t want to do that. I know it doesn’t matter comin’ from me, and I’m not who should be tellin’ you that, but I want you to keep that in mind. His anger, it was... that was beyond him.”_

_“S-Surely all his shortfalls can’t be pinned on the wolf,” you angrily snap._

_“No. They aren’t. But what happened back there was somethin’ even a werewolf with his control couldn’t help,” Hosea goes kneels down in front of you, producing the black neckerchief and holding out to you as some kind of ironic peace offering, “This here... This means a lot to him. Him giving it to you wasn’t just offerin’ some old scarf for you to put on. When you threw it back at him, that was probably the biggest offense he could ever receive.”_

_“Well how in the hell am I supposed to know?” you mutter, your eyes stinging as you eye the damn thing in Hosea’s hands, “But don’t bother, Hosea, I don’t fuckin’ want it now.”_

_The way Hosea’s breath sucks in is sharp and pained, and not even his cough causes such a sound. It makes you blink, instantly feeling some guilt at the way Hosea seems to react to a rejection that isn’t even towards him._

_“Rabbit,” he says, as deadly serious as you have ever heard him be, “You said it yourself. You already accepted it.”_

_“W-What? How did I—”_

_“You were already wearin’ this when you came in. Meanin’ you let Arthur put it on you, right?” as you nod, the old man undertones a curse and looks to the sky for a split moment before regarding you once more, “You may not know what this means, and I wish I could be the one to tell you. But this, this here,” he lifts the neckerchief, “This is something only Arthur can tell you about.”_

_“Why does it **have** to be him?” you snip, “Didn’t you hear back there? He doesn’t tell me shit.” _

_“Because this is somethin’ that is between only the two of you, and it’s not my place—”_

_“So you’re not goin’ to even try?”_

_“This isn’t somethin’ to anythin’ you’ve known as a human. This neckerchief was a gesture. It was askin’ somethin’ very important of you. And Arthur, he isn’t the type to go around doin’ that with just anyone. This is probably the most vulnerable he could be to you, and you had to go and literally throw it back in his face—”_

_Exasperated, you shout, “I didn’t know!”_

_“I know you didn’t, Rabbit. But it didn’t matter in the end, not in the way that counts... I feel it’s best that you take this back and try to talk to him. Get him to tell you what it means.”_

_Crossing your arms across your knees as you pull them up to your chest, you rest your head along them, murmuring, “I doubt he’ll speak to me now...”_

_“He may take time, but most things do,” Hosea sets a reassuring hand on your shoulder, and squeezes lightly, “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. I wish I could. But I’m a dragon at the end of my many years. I have not done a thing such as this since my youth, and I could never fathom what it is like for another person, let alone Arthur,” he then begins over his other hand, grabbing onto yours and setting the neckerchief into your palm as he encloses it with his own, “The only thing I can say is that you must only accept it when you truly know what it means.”_

_You look down to where his wrinkled hands slip away, to where they leave behind the neckerchief within your palm._

_“Thanks, Hosea...”_

_“Don’t thank me,” he tells you, standing up and taking a step back, “I’ll try and talk with the others. If there’s one thing I can do, it is to finally have them see how they have been treatin’ you... We may be myths, but we are not truly monsters.”_

_You nod, but you don’t look up to the old myth as he walks away, leaving you behind to consider all that he said, and all that he didn’t._

 

 

 

 

 

**\---**

Time passes, but in fragmented, broken segments.

Consciousness comes in bouts and ways, uneven in time or comprehension. Sometimes you cough awake, at others, the pain wakes you up until it becomes enough to put you under again.

But eventually, you are woken by something different.

Only one of your eyes is able to crack open, merely taking in the moon overhead as a shrill howl pierces through the air. It’s close, only some bit away, and your head lulls over to face its source as it comes barreling through the trees.

It’s a familiar sight, to see that blonde coat shimmer in the moonlight, especially when those red eyes land onto you.

You have no energy to speak, your jaw feeling almost fused as the wolf rushes forth, but the tears flow freely down your face as it approaches.

The cold of Arthur’s nose sniffing around you has you sniffling, and you can hear the sharp whines that leave him as he inspects you all over until he notices the neckerchief and still. There, he finds where you have been branded, and he growls, his muzzle lifting up and exposing his teeth as you hear the incoming galloping of horses.

“He’s over here!”

“Arthur, did you find her?”

At the sound of John and Dutch’s voice, the wolf pulls back, snapping and snarling as he lowers onto his front paws, ready to attack.

“Arthur, son—” Dutch hops off of the Count, upholding his hands in surrender as he comes forth, “We don’t mean her any harm.”

It isn’t good enough, as Arthur gives a warning lunge at Dutch, his jaws snapping around air concussively.

“Arthur,” it’s Hosea now, walking away from Silver Dollar and approaching the werewolf cautiously, “We know you can hear us. We ain’t gonna do nothin’ more than help.”

The wolf whined, shaking his head as though he were unsure as he backs up closer to you. When Hosea chances taking a step forward, Arthur is back on the offense, growling once more in warning.

“Arthur, we know how much she means to you. We’d never hurt her,” Dutch pleads, “You just ain’t thinkin’ right. The moon and wolf are in your head, boy!”

Arthur doesn’t back down. But if anything, he grows wilder, his head snapping in the opposite direction of Dutch and the others.

“Shit!” Dutch’s hand goes down to his holster as he grabs onto his Colt, “Pinkertons!”

Turning your head, you see where a few bloodhounds lead the way, the dogs howling to their masters as the humans come forth, all riding horses and carrying lanterns on their saddles as they gallop into the fray.

And at the very head of them is a man, old in age and as vile as acid as he takes in the sight of you all here before him.

“My my my,” he says as his men begin to encircle the gang, guns raised and at the ready, “I must say, I’m a bit surprised, Mister Van Der Linde. It’s not in your typical fashion to be uncovered so fast.”

“Cornwall,” Dutch hisses past his fangs, his Colt already aimed at the man’s head some fifty feet away.

“Now, is that any way to greet me?”

“The only time we may is in passin’ in Hades," Dutch glowers, and he clicks his gun over, “And I have no intention of gettin' there first.”

Cornwall chuckles, “Ah, see. That’s where you’re wrong, Van Der Linde. You have to have a soul to burn in hell.”

The vampire tsks, but before he says anything else, it’s Hosea that steps forwards and does the honors.

“What are we doin’ here, Cornwall?” there is no room for second-guessing in his tone, and you can see the way he seems to be taking stock of the firepower the human brought with him.

“Dyin’ or livin’, depending upon which fate or our makers decide.”

Chuckling, Hosea nods.

“Suppose I have no choice, then.”

Suddenly, the air crackles, almost feeling as though lightening were about to strike as Hosea shifts, his frail frame quickly becoming massive and foreboding as he transforms into the dragon you saw months ago.

A few of the Pinkertons cry out, never having seen the beast that a shifted dragon could be as Hosea roars, the sound as frightening as it is booming, shaking even the ground as he lowers his head, and that telltale glow begins to build at the back of his throat.

“Kill it!”

Flames rush out over you, catching onto trees and the men standing in its wake. As screams begin to fill the air, Arthur paces around you, unsure of what to do as the Pinkertons begin to shoot at Hosea and the others as they charge.

Through the flames, you see Cornwall’s face and the way he looks at Arthur with hate you could never muster within yourself.

“Get me the wolf!”

The Pinkertons swarm like flies, with countless men pouring in. With one of your eyes swollen shut, you watch as they converge onto Arthur, and the wolf is soon overwhelmed with fending off the men.

Hosea overhead does what he can, but he doesn’t dare bring his flames close to Arthur as he attacks, instead trying to keep off the worst of the oncoming assault.

Now abandoned, you lay in the middle of everything, and you try to get up. But your limbs are uncoordinated, and your head pulses angrily at your attempts. You make a wounded noise, coughing as they all fight against one another.

Sadie jumps into the helm, ready to spill the Pinkertons’ blood as easily as they spilled Jake’s.

But it’s John that comes forward, grabbing onto you and holding off what he can with his gun as Charles and a few others take on the other men, helping Arthur with those that slip past Hosea.

“Come on now,” the draug tells you, lifting you up and over his shoulder, “You ain’t stayin’ here!”

As he carries you, you shudder a bit, falling in and out of consciousness as it feels like your heart is stammering unevenly.

In the fight, you hear Arthur roar, looking as though he wants to get to you through all the chaos that envelopes him.

John’s skin is blissfully cool as he takes you further into the side of the woods, bringing you back to where Lenny is shifted and on a branch. He makes a noise when he sees you, flapping his wings and then shifting over when John approaches.

“How bad is she?”

“Pretty beat up,” John huffs, and he moves you off of his shoulder, softly apologizing at the way it makes you hurt and dizzy, “Think you could spare one of them special tears of yours?”

“Already have some bottled up before we came.”

“Good. Now I gotta get back there, things ain’t lookin’ pretty.”

“They never did,” Lenny hums as the draug steps away, and then, gets to work.

The Phoenix moves to a bag that is set aside, removing one of the flaps there and pulling out a small vial. Inside, there’s a single, glowing drop of liquid, and your good eye locks on it the moment it is unearthed from the satchel there.

“Hey, Rabbit,” Lenny greets softly, uncorking the small vial and grinning at you, “I’ll get ya fixed up in no time.”

Your eyes flutter, and your chest feels heavy. The world feels cold, too cold now. And you realize that it was not just John that felt that way. It almost seems as though everything was growing numb.

As you breathe out one heavy sigh and the world begins to fade away, Lenny seems to rush, bringing the vial to your forehead, dropping tilting it over so the droplet begins to slide down the glass.

“Jesus, Rabbit, you’re ‘bout dead,” he hisses.

You feel the moment that the tear lands on your skin, your lungs heaving a deep death at the iciness of it.

“Don’t know if you know much about us phoenixes,” he starts, “But our tears can heal others. Part of the whole _regeneration_ or reborn business we got goin’ on.”

You breathe, gasping, nearly writhing on the ground as you feel life seep back into you.

“Now, I can only heal you. I can’t entirely reverse some of what happened,” you wonder what he’s talking about when you feel him slightly adjust the neckerchief at your throat, “This will probably scar, but... It’ll be better than how it is right now...”

The skin around your brand loses the many blisters that had propped up, the pulsing heat that was left in the skin begins to cool away, and your flesh begins to stitch itself back together. The swelling in your eye also begins to subside, and soon, you’re able to open it, and you groan at the slight whiplash it all offers.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

“Yeah, phoenix tears are a hell of a thing,” Lenny beams, and he shoves the vial back into what you recognize as Arthur’s satchel, “How ya feelin’?”

“Like I should be close to death... that I was,” you look down, eyeing where the brand resides as a nasty, fresh scar on your collar. From this angle, it’s hard to see what it makes out, but your finger traces over it, remembering the words that came with it.

Following your gaze, Lenny makes a face, hissing, “I can’t believe they branded you.”

“What?”

“The Pinkertons,” Lenny growls, and he nods to where your fingers have stopped running over the soft, thick curve of scar tissue, “That mark, the P crossed with an X, that’s their brand. They usually save it for captured myths, or to mark their kills... But to mark you, another human?”

“It wasn’t the Pinkertons—”

Hosea roars, and the wind suddenly picks up, with leaves rushing past and having you lift your arm to brace the assault of debris that sweeps in. Over the mass of the trees you are in, you see the silver dragon raise his head, his expansive wings lifting and flexing as he roars.

“That ain’t good,” Lenny hisses, and it’s then that you see all the bullet holes and other wounds littering the expanse of his wings.

“Hosea!” you hear Dutch cry as the dragon collapses on the ground, splitting the earth with his fall as you scream.

“Tie him down!”

Pinkertons swarm Hosea then, gathering lengths of chain and wrapping them around his body. The dragon goes to open his mouth, but they are quick, almost lassoing it with chain and pulling it taught so that Hosea cannot part his jaws.

To see the magnificent dragon held captive, you rush out of the trees, leaving behind Lenny as he calls out to you.

You nearly stop dead in your tracks as you come upon the sight of the clearing. Dozens of bodies litter the ground, but somehow, there are still hundreds of Pinkertons, and they surround the area as they corner everyone.

But if there is one sight more than any that has your blood running cold, it’s of Arthur, tied down by lengths of silver chain much like Hosea, his coat cut and turned red with blood as he whines in agony in the clearing.

“Kill the dragon, and bring me the wolf—”

“Wait!”

Everyone’s attention snaps to you, including Arthur’s. You watch as the wolf takes a second to realize that it’s you, and when he does, a new vigor takes over him.

But Cornwall ignores that, his brown eyes narrowing onto you with an unnerving amount of curiosity. Some of the guns aim to you, and you swallow nervously.

“What are you?” Cornwall sneers, guiding his horse in your direction across his battlefield, “I’m afraid I haven’t ever seen you with these degenerates before.”

But before you can answer, it’s Dutch who speaks, “She’s the human.”

Cornwall’s eyes widen, and he tilts his head at you.

He studies you for a moment, taking in what he can before he nods to himself, and says, “Only one way to find out.”

The man hops off of his horse, and the air almost grows stagnant. Across the way, you see Arthur trying to work his way out of his bonds, with more men coming over to pile down on top of him as he struggles. It makes your heart lurch, and your force yourself to look away as Cornwall stops right in front of you.

“Let me see your palm,” he instructs.

Doing as told, you lift your unsteady hand in offering.

And with a small jerk, his other hand emerges, brandishing a large, silver hunting knife. Eyeing the blade, your eyes widen, and your mouth goes dry. He tosses it to one of the Pinkertons holding Arthur down.

“Cut him.”

They do as instructed, and you jerk the moment the blade meets Arthur’s flesh. The wolf snarls, the blade searing at his skin and coming back bloody, the liquid itself bubbling against the knife like some sort of reaction.

“May I?”

The hunter comes forth, handing the knife back to Cornwall.

As Cornwall takes it with one of his own as he murmurs, “You’re not cold, or burning hot...”

You swallow as he lifts the knife to your hand.

“But do you bleed like us?” he grins, “And don’t worry, this blade is pure silver. Any myth would have a reaction to it, apart from getting a nasty cut.”

He brings the bloodied blade down to your palm, slicing instantly into the flesh. You make a hissing noise, feeling the splitting pain of it as blood seeps out of the deep slit in your flesh.

The wind blows past, moving further onto the field and carrying that particularly damning scent of rust and salt with it.

And suddenly, there’s a commotion at the other side of the field, and both your own and Cornwall’s heads snap to where Arthur manages to somewhat free himself, roaring and pushing forward, knocking some of Cornwall’s men back despite their numbers and the silver chains binding him.

At this outburst, Cornwall chuckles, the sound grew into a laugh as Arthur makes it to where he is only a few feet from them before he stops dead in his tracks.

You gasp out of reflex when you feel the knife press against your throat, with Cornwall’s hand gripping your hair as he holds you against his chest, the man humming thoughtfully behind you as he gauges Arthur’s reaction.

The werewolf roars, pacing for a moment and looking almost rabid with the hate that fills his crimson eyes, his nostrils flaring with each heavy breath he takes as saliva drips from his gaping maw and stretches between the sharp points of his teeth.

It makes Cornwall laugh once more, especially as his men surround Arthur once again, pulling him back down and getting what looks to be a metal muzzle over his snout. He thrashes, but it’s of no use, leaving him to simply eye Cornwall with enough hatred that you wonder if it could kill the man where he stands.

“My my, Arthur Morgan, I’d never thought I’d see the day with you,” Cornwall hums, letting you go as you gasp, “It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of workin’ with a mated pair.”

Turning to Cornwall, you hold your injured palm to your chest, shaking your head, “W-We ain’t mates.”

“Now, if you’re going to lie to me, you have to do a better job than that—”

“I ain’t lyin’,” you huff, confronting him.

Looking at you, Cornwall shakes his head, laughing.

“Now don’t tell me she doesn’t know,” he shouts as he looks over to the rest of the gang and their grim faces until his eyes shift to Arthur, and when the werewolf whines, he runs a hand over his face.

He takes a moment, but then he looks to you, eyes calculating.

You step forward, and Arthur whines at the action.

“Please, let the dragon go. I’ll— I’ll come with you.”

“I’m not exactly one to make deals,” Cornwall states harshly, “Even so, I have every intention of getting you out of this. I cannot let myself leave a human with all of these vile creatures.”

“Just don’t hurt him,” you beg, your throat stinging, “Don’t hurt any of them—”

“Do you really think you’re in a position to bargain with me—”

“Sir!”

Cornwall’s eyes snap over your shoulder to where Arthur was lying on the ground, and his eyes widen.

“It’s shifting back!”

You turn, facing Arthur as you watch his body change. It’s not as fluid as that night when he saved you, with his joints cracking and his body struggling to change with all of the silver that crisscrosses his form.

“Arthur, stop forcing the shift!” Dutch shouts, “Just stay as you are!”

The werewolf ignores the vampire, keeping on until he’s finally back to his human form. His eyes still burn red, but you can see the weakness in him, the lethargy from forcing himself to shift back as the silver causes his skin to bubble and burn.

“Take me instead...”

His voice is the worst you’ve ever heard it, and you watch as Cornwall regards Arthur then, lips pursing.

“Please, just... take me, l-leave the rest of them,” Arthur begs, attempting to get up but failing, his muscles giving out despite how much he tries to will them to work, “You can even kill me, I don’t care—”

“ _No!”_ you shout in protest, and as you attempt to go to him, a Pinkerton grabs ahold of you, holding you back.

You thrash, trying to free yourself, but to no avail.

“Why should I do such a thing?” Cornwall asks, his voice callous at that moment, “I could easily kill the lot of you now.”

“No, not all of us. There are some who already got away,” at that, Cornwall’s eye twitches, “‘Sides, I’m the one you really want. I’ll go with ya, willingly. I’ll do whatever you want,” Arthur pants, refusing to look at you as he faces the man, “And if you don’t accept, you’ll never get this chance again. But it’ll only be if you let them all go.”

Cornwall seems to consider this for a moment, and then he sighs, motioning towards his men.

“Take the wolf and its mate.”

“Arthur!” Dutch yells, and you begin to get dragged away.

Arthur glares at Cornwall as the Pinkertons lift him, his bare chest heaving with his growl, “Leave her outta this—”

“I told you, I’m not one to make deals,” Cornwall hoists himself back onto his horse, flicking his hands towards the other men, “Do what you see fit.”

“You bastard!” Arthur roars, but they quickly knock him out with the back of their gun.

The shooting commences once more as Cornwall leads you both into trees, and you feel tears slip down your cheeks at the sounds of what you are forced to leave behind.

“You’re a god damn monster,” you seethe at him.

All it earns you is an impassive snort, his voice just as cold, “No, I’m just the man who knows better than to trust them.”

You’re led to a few wagons then, both caged at back with cells made of silver as they throw Arthur into one, and you into the other. You land harshly against it, the metal bars and the wood underneath jabbing into your sides as the Pinkertons slam the door shut and lock it into place.

You move to the side where Cornwall has come between both the wagon that houses you, and the one containing Arthur, and you grip onto the bars, your injured palm turning the metal black with your blood in the moonlight.

“What are you goin’ to do with us?” you hiss.

“Now, I don’t wanna spoil the fun. But you best get comfortable,” he tells you, spurring his warhorse forward as the men driving the wagons snap their reins to follow him, “We’ve got a ride ahead of us.”

Knowing there’s no use for pushing questions where you won’t get answers, you fall back against the back of the wagon, setting your head down onto your knees as you curl up upon yourself.

And overhead, the full moon climbs steadily into the sky, unperturbed by the blood spilled beneath it.

 

 

 

 

**\---**

_It takes a few days for Arthur to come back, and each one is spent with you looking out for him in waiting._

_Most of the gang members come by one by one, trying to spark a conversation or to offer an apology. Bill simply ignores you, which is an improvement compared to the slew of comments he would send your way. As for Micah, the snake remained as elusive to Hosea’s influence as he was to any welcome to you, still sending venomous looks if you happened to pass by him._

_Sadie still tries to pretend you don’t exist, but you know her avoidance is just how she is coping. She is rational enough to know you were not at fault for Jake, but the pain was too fresh and evident for her to simply write it away for the sake of kindness she could not find in herself to spare. But, she seemed less and less like it was a priority. For her, it would take time, not acceptance._

_But the others, it got a little easier. You bonded with the girls, and you finally got to entertain Jack. It may have been under Abigail’s watchful eye, but you still knew how much of a gesture of trust it was, and you made sure to thank her for it._

_But when no one was occupying you, you went to your tent near the trees, looking out into the trunks and wondering when you would finally see Arthur pass back through them._

_“It ain’t right, him bein’ gone on his own for so long,” Dutch was telling Hosea, “I know what happened was not somethin’ easy for him, but the Pinkertons—”_

_“Arthur’s been runnin’ from them since before he ran with you. I’m not exactly fond of the idea myself, but I have confidence in Arthur. If he needs to stew, then we let him.”_

_Stewing. That’s what Hosea called it._

_For you, it seemed a lot more like sulking._

_It wasn’t like Arthur to do such a thing, to almost walk away and act like a dog who had its tail scolded between its legs. He often was the most mature of the group when it came to things like anger or being pressed, and you’ve seen the man perform just the same when he was furious as he was calm._

_Sure, the way Hosea described what had happened, it wasn’t just some slap on the wrist, or some insult thrown around in upset. What exactly it truly is, you’re not sure, but every time you look at the neckerchief that hangs on the post inside of your tent, it feels like some sort of accusation._

_And the gang, while they try to be friendly towards you, you can tell that it has even affected them, more so with Hosea, Javier, and Karen. They all react to it a bit differently than the others, almost as though they take it a bit personally, whatever it is that you happened to do._

_For Hosea, he seems almost disappointed. Like he expected better. Maybe not of you, or maybe of Arthur, but mostly the situation. His eyes always move to the neckerchief whenever he catches sight of it, and he gets this glint in his eye. Almost like a prospector finding fool’s gold._

_Karen, she seemed almost angry with you at first. She made a face but forced a gruff greeting your way the day after your fight with Arthur. Mary-Beth and Tilly explained not to worry, that she would eventually come around and realize that what happened wasn’t something she could hold against you. And eventually, she did shift direction, sheepishly beginning to offer more than just stilted conversation and bitter glances._

_As for Javier, he isn’t as jovial towards you, despite his attempt at warmth. He almost dims around you, like a lantern with the threat of being snuffed, and you can sometimes see how he forces himself to not falter when he greets you. But if anything is the largest tell, it is his songs of choice. They’re more solemn, not as chipper as they used to be._

_And one night in particular, he and Karen sing a song together written about a lone wolf, whose only reply is its echo._

_You’re not sure why they take it as they do, but you doubt any questions will be met with straightforward answers._

_Especially when Arthur finally comes back._

_“Lobo!” Javier had cried from his neck of the woods, and your head snapped up from the book you were reading, “Thought you got lost!”_

_“Oh, how I wish I could be.”_

_That gets a chuckle out of Javier, and the two seem to start whispering as you clamber up out of the dirt. Their eyes are on you as you jog up, your dress occasionally caught in the undergrowth, but you never slow, breathing roughly as you finally come to a stop about a foot away from the werewolf._

_He eyes you with those crystal blue irises, not once leaving you or lost to the downward pull of his brow._

_The air between you grows tense and heavy, and you can see the way that Javier scowls lightly, muttering a small dismissal of himself as he leaves you two alone._

_“Arthur, I—”_

_“Walk with me.”_

_When you make a quizzical face, Arthur holds up a hand when your mouth parts in questioning._

_“We ain’t gonna do it with an audience this time.”_

_Pressing your lips together, you nod, and the werewolf turns without another word._

_Quietly, you follow him, walking all the way down until you reach the riverbanks of the Dakota River as you had been a few days prior._

_Stopping in front of the water, you stand behind Arthur, watching the man’s back as he sighs, placing his hands on his hips as he overlooks the flow of the water, almost as though he were wishing it could sweep and wash all of this away._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_You blink, the apology catching you entirely off guard._

_“Why are you—”_

_“What I did, it wasn’t right of me,” he says, finally turning to face you, but not daring to meet your eyes as you stare at him in bewilderment, “You don’t know about this world, and it’s not somethin’ you can understand just with an explanation... When I say that, I don’t mean it as in you can’t understand. You just won’t, because it won’t make sense. It won’t because you’re human.”_

_“I could try...”_

_“That’s like askin’ a bird what it’s like to fly, Rabbit,” he tells you softly, shaking his head, “You can only imagine what it’s like because you can’t do it yourself. And trust me, it makes a world of a difference.”_

_“I ain’t askin’ a bird,” you take a step forward, “I’m askin’ you.”_

_The werewolf runs a hand over his face, looking tired and worn, “That’s the point. I’m a myth, you’re a human. I may be able to walk as a man but I can walk as a wolf, too. And that wolf, it’s got a mind of its own. Urges, desires,” his eyes land on you for a moment only for him to rip away his gaze, almost ashamed for even allowing himself to glance in your direction, “There’s two sides of me, and I can’t just... I can’t just make them the same.”_

_“I don’t want you to,” you murmur, and you get close enough to reach out a hand, and you grab onto Arthur’s own — he seems hesitant about the touch, but he doesn’t pull away like he used to, “Arthur, what happened that day, I just want an explanation. I don’t know what I did to you, and knowing I was able to do such a thing without bein’ aware scares me. I don’t wanna walk on eggshells with you.”_

_Huffing, the man’s hand slips from yours, “You ain’t gotta. I ain’t made of porcelain.”_

_“You aren’t, and yet it still happened,” you point out, “Just— if you can’t tell me what that neckerchief is for, then tell me what to do with it. Or what not to do. Because I don’t want to have somethin’ like this happen again when I happen to use my imagination.”_

_The man goes quiet, and his lips purse together into a thin line. You can see the thoughts working in that mind of his, passing over like the whitecaps on the river, seamlessly flowing into one another with the flow until they are lost back into the water from whence they came._

_And quietly, just as sure the current, he murmurs, “Don’t wear it.”_

_“But I thought you—”_

_“Don’t,” he grabs onto your wrist this time, his grip urgent but not suffocating, “My wolf wants you to, and I— I’d rather you have a choice. Tellin’ you to wear that, it was selfish of me. I knew better when you didn’t. You won’t need it now, not for what you asked.”_

_“Do you want it back?”_

_The question makes him wince, and your stomach instantly coils on itself._

_“Oh, I— I didn’t mean—”_

_“No, it’s fine,” he says, letting go of your wrist and taking a step away from you, “Just... Keep it. It’ll be more trouble than it’s worth otherwise.”_

_Frowning, you tilt your head at him, “What about you? I feel like I’m just walkin’ away from this, but you...”_

_The look on Arthur’s face, he seems miserable. Anguish seems to have replaced the fury you had seen on his face days before, the hurt now plain as day on his face._

_He looks... about damn near heartbroken._

_“Told you,” he pushes past you, “I’ll be fine.”_

_You chase after him, “Arthur, don’t go lyin’ to me.”_

_“It won’t make a difference if I am or if I’m not,” he huffs, “You can’t tell when someone is, like me.”_

_Blinking, you murmur, “You can tell when someone’s lyin’?”_

_“It’s in their heartbeat,” he explains softly as he walks up the hill with you at his side, “Skips when they do, stays steady when they’re not.”_

_“So when I told you about the Pinkertons, you heard my heartbeat?”_

_“I always do. And it was as steady as the Dakota River,” Arthur smiles sadly, “Though, I didn’t doubt you to begin with... You... You were right. The others, they were treatin’ you badly, even when I tried to convince them otherwise... I’m sorry they were as bad as they were. I should’ve done more, let alone do what I did...”_

_Quietly, you look towards the lengths of grass parting at the hem of your dress as you ask, “You mean with the neckerchief?”_

_“Yeah...”_

_Humming, you whisper, “It’s... it’s okay... I’m honestly just glad you’re back.”_

_Arthur slows for a moment as you begin to crest up to the hill right before the trees that shroud the camp sprout up, “You were worried I wouldn’t come back?”_

_“N-No, not that exactly, just—” you rub at your arm, “But I guess, more than anythin’, I was worried that, when you got back, you would act as though I died that night on my ranch.”_

_“I’d never do that to you,” he says seriously, almost like a vow._

_Breathing, you look at him, “You keep your distance. And sometimes, you act like I’m not there. And with things like this, you keep me out... It wasn’t a misplaced fear, I don’t think...”_

_“Listen, Rabbit, I—” he starts, and he exhales through his nose, looking towards the trail that leads into camp, “I know how I am sometimes. And I promise, it ain’t ‘cause I want you dead or I regret bringin’ you here... There’s just... There are things that have happened. Reasons why I don’t try and get close. It ain’t ‘cause of nothin’ you did... I just learned that, over the years, the closer I am to people, the more likely they are to get hurt, or worse...”_

_**And I don’t want that to happen to you.** _

_It goes unsaid, but it doesn’t need to be uttered for you to know._

_Instead, you offer a small smile._

_“Well, I don’t plan on goin’ anywhere.”_

_The myth mirrors the expression, looking towards his boots for a moment until he faces the direction of camp._

_“Come on, then.”_

_And the two of you head back together._

 

 

 

 

 

**\---**

The trashing against the other cage is persistent as you try to breathe steadily, numbers passing quietly over your lips like silent prayers for a reprieve, announced by both your tongue and every slam against the metal bars at your side.

Sometime during the ride, Arthur shifted back, almost as though he had no control over himself, let alone in an entrapment made of a metal that is nothing but toxic to him.

You can hear his whines amidst the growling, see the raw and bleeding pads of his paws as he paces, the places in his coat where he has ripped the fur out and nicked his skin in his attempts at escape. Arthur, despite knowing better, looks like a frantic caged animal fighting for its life.

Across from where your wagons have been stowed away in some sort of structure resembling a fortified barn of sorts stands Cornwall, his back to you both as he works on something. Across the room from you both is a large cage of some sort, covered in a black cloth that drapes the entirety of it, hiding it all from view.

However, you can see how the workbench is lined with various glass vials and machinery that you will make no attempt at trying to recognize, bubbling away under burners as though they were mere kettles on the stove. They’re the only source of light apart from the glass section of the ceiling, letting the moon to illuminate the room as it nearly crests into the middle of the night sky. It allows you to see glass jars of dust, and bundles of what you recognize as dried wolfsbane lining the counter. And beside that lies a Colt, damningly placed with purpose.

Despite your near-mindless counting, you watch him, his arms sweeping about his space, pouring this into that, scribbling down his thoughts, humming to himself. He seems almost nonplussed about this whole thing — as though this all was for nothing more than a mere hobby in past time.

Eventually, the man seems satisfied with his fiddling, coming around with a vial and what looks like a needle on the end.

“You’ve been oddly quiet compared to your friend here,” Cornwall comments idly as Arthur yet again throws himself at the cage he’s entrapped in.

“I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you,” you hiss, gripping the bars with your good hand.

“Oh, I think you will,” Cornwall has a slight curve to his lips as he walks over to Arthur’s cage, completely unfazed by the way the massive wolf tries to lunge at him through the bars, stopping only mere inches away with each attempt, “Tell me, how did you stumble upon Mr. Morgan, here?”

“I told you, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” you bark, sending the man a glare of the ages as he eyes you humoredly.

“And I think I told you that isn’t somethin’ you’ll be wanting to do. I got ways to make you talk, after all.”

Swallowing at the threat, you puff up at him, meeting his opposition with vigor, “I’m not foldin’.”

“Even if your beloved mate is in danger?”

Your heart pangs in your chest, but you refuse to let Cornwall see the effect the words have on you, “We ain’t mates.”

“You’re here to tell me that when, even to a human such as myself, it’s so obvious?” Cornwall laughs in disbelief, “I am not dumb, child. I didn’t get as old and as wise as I am, especially about myths, but permitting such arrogance and blind trust.”

“I’m not lyin’.”

“Whatever delusions you hold about it with yourself are none of my concern,” he snips, moving to where he passes on the other side of the bars across from you, with Arthur following every step of the way with his muzzle trying to snag onto him the entire time, “What I do want to know is how in the world did the one werewolf I’ve been hunting for years find his mate, and hide that under my nose. I’ve been keepin’ tabs on this one, and he’s been runnin' alone ever since that girl Mary of his got killed by her own family for daring to lie with him.”

“He didn’t hide anythin’!” you yell, gripping onto the bars of the cage as Cornwall rounds the front of Arthur’s wagon, “The only way he did was that he was only hidin’ from you, you sick bastard! You want him dead for no reason!”

Cornwall’s face grows as hard as slate then, his features almost going entirely slack save but a small twitch under his left eye.

“No reason? . . .” he echoes quietly, as though the words or concept were in another language, “You think that all of this is for no reason?”

You are quiet, sensing the immense amount of quelling rage emanating from the man at that moment. Breathing harshly, you try to force yourself not to flinch as Cornwall sweeps across the room like the Boogeyman in a child’s room, ominous and cumbersome as he slams a hand against the bars of your wagon.

Failing, you do somewhat stumble back, finding a ferocious look that makes Arthur’s live in its shadow, his nostrils flaring with rage, spittle flying from his reddened lips as he snarls lowly at you.

“You are nothing but an ignorant child,” he seethes, his other hand snaking through the bars and grabbing onto the blood-crusted hem of your shirt and yanking you until you roughly hit against the bars, causing Arthur to all but roar behind him, “The world I have ensured you have done nothing but coddle you if you believe that a myth has not done wrong. There is no such thing. By simply existing, they must prey upon humanity to survive, like leeches, dear girl. Myths like your _beloved_ Dutch Van Der Linde, or that rotten corpse by the last name of Marston. There is no way they can exist in this world without killing innocent humans in the process. So this, it is not for nothing. Especially for me.”

As abruptly as he pulled you flush to the cage, he shoves you back, having you land upon your injured hand with a sharp hiss as he walks over to the shrouded cage across the room. As he walks away, heading towards the cage with purpose, you pull your battered hand to your chest, feeling where the black neckerchief has gotten soaked with your blood after wrapping it. The parted flesh underneath pulses hotly, and your vision swims lightly as you forcibly center your attention on the older man as he reaches the cage.

“The war between myths and humans started forty-three years ago in Saint Denis. It was the successor of days of protest in the city, rallies crying for justice when a young girl was attacked by a werewolf on a plantation by the name of Shady Belle just outside of town, near Rhodes... That girl, she was my beloved daughter, Lily...”

Cornwall goes to the cage then, gripping onto the curtain that sheathes it and continuing.

“Up until the war, werewolves ran rampant. There were as common as rats, back in those days. Packs of them would roam from New Austin all the way to New Hanover, and so many humans lived in fear for the night of the full moon... So many lives, lost. Either ended or changed over into ravenous beasts. Not all could control their change, the beast that now lived inside them. It was common practice to put a loved one down as though they had been bitten by a rabid animal when the bite finally took.”

Cornwall pulls the curtain down, revealing the silver bars and the poor creature within.

“But... I am afraid I was not strong enough to pull the trigger.”

Your eyes widen, and your stomach lurches in horror at the sight you see, at the creature held back within the bars.

It is disfigured, almost both human and wolf, too entirely mixed to be just one or the other and all but crazed from where it resides. Its limbs are shackled with silver, the flesh and bits of fur there almost rotting off and blackened from the way the metal has eaten away at it like acid.

“I did this to protect her from herself, since her first full moon,” Cornwall murmurs as you feel bile rise into the back of your throat, “She couldn’t control herself... Killed her mother before I was able to lock her up. She was never even able to visit her grave,” he grits out.

The being that was once human and is no longer turns to him, its misshapen mouth unnaturally gaping and foaming around its uneven, cracked teeth. It’s accusing from where it stands, each breath a miserable wheeze that passes through its malformed nose.

But its eyes... One red, one green. One formed from an insatiable beast, and one belonging to a daughter lost to her father.

“Y-Y-You—”

You can’t find the words, and you have to break your gaze away before you stomach convulses to the point of you getting sick.

“It’s repulsive, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice not even wavering, “Now imagine looking at that and knowing that was once your child. And all because of one damn second, one moment you could not protect her, she wound up like this. A goddamn freak of nature.”

You have to ground yourself, all but collapsing against the bottom of the wagon as your head pounds and your heart races. Looking up, you see the moon is almost directly above you, and you blink at the feeling growing within you.

“I’ve spent every day since trying to get my daughter back. A part of me knows I never can, not now, with how she’s become. But I still feel the same reluctance as I did the day she was bitten.”

“You’re c-cruel, then,” you hiss, breathing harshly as your hairs begin to stand on end, “Any father who had an ounce of love for their daughter would realize you’re only lettin’ her s-suffer—”

“I’m trying to _save_ her!” he yells, voice echoing off the walls much like Arthur’s consistent struggle, “I just don’t want the death of werewolves, but I want a cure. A cure for people like my daughter Lily who had their lives stolen away from them.”

Your eyes widen on the man as he walks back over to Arthur’s cage, that syringe of his still in hand.

“N-No!” you surge towards the wall of your cage, despite the way your stomach almost contorts on itself, “He ain’t the same as your daughter!”

“Not all myths can be cured, but lycanthropy, it may be possible... Like most animal myths, it’s almost as though two beings live in one body at a time and their consciousness shifts from one to the other. For someone who was bitten, it’s almost like a parasite. If I can find a way to kill it or separate them—”

“Arthur ain’t bitten! He’s a born werewolf!” you yell, yanking at the bars with your heart racing in speed, “You can’t change him from somethin’ he’s always been!”

Your hand aches with the way you try to force the bars apart as Cornwall nears Arthur, the tip of his needle glinting in the moonlight.

“Ten milligrams of diluted silver powder, composed with wolfsbane extract,” Cornwall murmurs to himself as Arthur claws at him from the cell he is imprisoned in, unable to understand the danger in which he was in.

“You damn fool, you will _kill_ him—”

“I don’t care about losin’ one life to save another,” as Cornwall glances towards the cage opposing Arthur’s, with the creature shifting miserably from its breath alone, Cornwall murmurs, “To save Lily...”

“Wolfsbane will kill him!” you scream, your heart racing as your hand feels as though it is on fire, “Please, please _don’t—”_

The needle nears Arthur’s neck, and Cornwall takes a deep breath.

The tip of it sinks into Arthur’s neck at the same moment you grip ahold of Cornwall’s.

Cornwall is pale in your grip, his eyes widened with a fear you have not seen the man bore during the entire time you have known him.

Above, the moon is directly in the middle of the sky, casting stark shadows long your face as you glare his way, feeling something thrum within you as you hold the man above the ground, your fingers like iron around his throat.

“Y-You—” he chokes, his hands scratching at your wrist with no avail, his nails coming away bloody as you skin remains unmarred, “You’re not human—”

You toss the man across the room, causing him to land harshly into the wall with a sickening crack as you turn your attention to Arthur.

He shifted back, groaning with the needle dug into the flesh of his neck, about half of its contents emptied into him.

You don’t hesitate, gripping the bars of his cage as you had done with yours, and the metal melts away at your touch, folding almost like grass being parted against your skin.

“A-Arthur, I’m—” you shake, grabbing the syringe and tossing it against the wall, shattering the glass and sending shards flying across the floor, “I’m right here...”

“R-Rabbit,” he coughs, black liquid passing over his lips as he grips onto you, his eyes flashing brokenly between red and that pale shade of blue, “Y-Y-You—”

“God, what do I do?” you whimper, feeling your panic grow like the black tint threading up Arthur’s veins, “ _What do I do!?”_

“Rabbit,” Arthur wheezes, gripping onto you as best he can, “G-Get the damn flower—”

Nearly stumbling over yourself, you go over to the counter, grabbing ahold of one of the sprigs of wolfsbane and turning back to the werewolf.

“I— I need you to burn it... So we can... Turn it to a-ash...”

Taking one of the burners, you shakily begin to singe the flowers, its acrid scent soon becoming almost painful as the dried blooms light and crinkle as the flames consume it. Its once vibrant violet color is lost to black, and you blow out the flames before it destroys what little there is left.

You bring the burnt Wolfsbane over to Arthur, tears welling up in your eyes as you look at him pleadingly.

“W-What now?”

“Give—” he breathes shallowly, his teeth clenching before he’s able to finish, “Give ‘em here...”

Handing the flower over to the werewolf, you watch as he rips the Wolfsbane apart with his teeth until they crack apart into pieces along his tongue. He continues to do this, and with each swallow, you see the effects of the wolfsbane begin to recede.

But you can tell there is still something else. Something else that is wrong.

Arthur’s head falls back against the floor of the wagon, and you notice where the skin around his wrists are bubbled with blisters and worn raw, and they only seem to worsen as he swallows the last of the burnt flower.

“S’the silver,” he hisses to you, his eyes now settled onto a stark shade of red, “Too much exposure...”

“Is there anythin’ I can do?”

“Best thing is to just sit here with me,” he tells you, breathing roughly, “Just... just gotta let it all pass.”

“Do you want me to talk to you?”

“Please...”

You go to grab Arthur’s hand with your own, but the werewolf’s eyes catch on the black neckerchief wrapped around your palm.

“Y-You...”

You let him maneuver your hand, and a slight pinch grows about his face.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, and looking down at it, “My hand, when Cornwall cut it—”

“No. Don’t ‘pologize ‘bout that,” Arthur levels his eyes with yours, “I get why you did it. I ain’t mad none.”

Frowning, you worry at the ruined neckerchief, “I know but... I know how much it meant to you...”

“It’s just a piece a cloth at the end of things,” he says, coughing lightly, “’Sides, that’s all it was to you anyway.”

Making a face at that, your insistence is nothing short of scandalized, “I may not have known what it meant, but that doesn’t mean I’m wholly obtuse, Arthur. It wasn’t like some hankie to me.”

Leveling his eyes to you then, he asks quietly, “What did it mean to you?”

You look down at the black fabric wrapped around your palm, and the question rings out in your mind like an echo awaiting an answer.

It’s almost like that song... the one that Javier and Karen sang.

A song sung solo for so long and only given a duet by its own refraction.

_What do I mean to you?_

Your eyes move to Arthur’s, and something stutters in your chest. His pale blue eyes search yours for that answer, for that melody he’s been longing to hear since he began to cry out in the hopes of one day hearing it from someone else.

And the ferocity that you feel about answering takes you by surprise.

Something now, it feels different. Arthur feels different.

It’s almost as though there was a tether between you both, pulling as much as it anchors, and your breath escapes you as you feel the depth of its reach.

And when Arthur takes in your expression, he wraps his hand around yours.

“I—” blinking, you stare at him, “It felt like a promise.”

“Kinda was, for a lot of things... And one of em’ was that I was goin’ to protect you, to keep you safe,” he murmurs, his hand somewhat tightening on yours, “And now here you are...”

His eyes move, and you don’t have to follow them to know he is looking at Cornwall’s limp body.

“You ain’t really my rabbit no more, are ya?” he says with a small smile.

“I’m still me, Arthur.”

“Yeah, but you’s changed somehow.”

Shaking your head, you pull away, trying to ignore the swirl of your gut at his words.

You don’t know what has happened. What has changed. But he’s right. He’s god damn right and it’s something you’re trying to not think about.

“I think the silver has worn off.”

“Rabbit—”

Stepping back, you look at the rest of the room, “Come on. We’re god knows where now, and the Pinkertons were still attackin’ the gang when they took us Let alone what happened with Micah...”

“What happened with Micah?”

You turn to him, face glowering, “He’s the damn bastard who grabbed me from camp. Branded me as he did—”

“He _branded_ you?” Arthur growls, coming off the table then and pushing to where he can see your collar, his eyes glowing red, “But why—”

“He wanted to pin this on the Pinkertons... Get us to fight... He doesn’t want peace, fuckin’ maniac as he is. I think he’s been tryin’ to convert Dutch into somethin’ like Colm this entire time, even you. Figured he could do so through me by settin’ this all up.”

“That _bastard,_ ” Arthur snarls, and his brow pinches, “I knew he was no damn good.”

“That he ain’t. But he’s the least of our worries now...”

“You’re right...” Arthur admits, trying to lose his bristle and refocus, “I could probably shift n’ track our scents. Lead us right back from where the Pinkertons took us.”

“What about Lily?”

Arthur then turns to you, brows pinching in confusion, “Who?”

Your eyes have not left the cage where the poor creature resides. Its pained breaths become evident in the complete silence, and the moment that Arthur takes note of it is it broken by a sharp curse.

“What in the hell is that thing?” he whispers, stepping in front of you and bracing an arm in front of you.

Pushing past his arm, you begin to walk in its direction, “That’s Lily. Cornwall’s daughter.”

“That’s his kid?” Arthur doesn’t let up, following you step by step of the way and looking wary with each and every one of them, “She don’t look human at all.”

“’Cause she ain’t. Not anymore,” you both stop right in front of the bars.

Arthur goes to touch them, and when he yanks his hand back, he curses as his palm reddens and welts, “Shit. Is everythin’ he got made of silver?”

“Who knows how long he kept her in this...” you whisper.

“Probably why she’s as she is now,” Arthur’s eyes are pitying as the creature looks to him, “We ain’t supposed to be around silver for long. No myth is, really... He probably kept her in this for years...”

“He told me about her gettin' bit... it’s been since before the war.”

“That long?” Arthur’s voice hardens then, and he growls, “I only wore silver for a few days and I about felt mad with it. I can’t imagine what over forty years are like. If Cornwall knew a damn thing about us, he’d know that he wasn’t protectin’ himself or her and that this here is only torture...”

“There’s a lot that man should’ve done better by,” you grit, and you look at the creature that was once Lily Cornwall, and you ask, “Is there anythin’ we can do?”

“At this point, the only thing we can do is what her father couldn’t,” going over to the desk, Arthur grabs the colt that you had spotted lying there earlier.

“Arthur—”

“I don’t like doin’ this, but I can’t leave her here. Not when the damn bastards her father had workin’ for him would just leave her to suffer even longer.”

He glances to you, and you know that no amount of argument would change his mind or course of action.

But even then, you can’t find it within yourself to disagree.

“Just make it quick,” you plead softly.

“Trust me, makin’ her hurt more is the last thing I want...”

He walks over, cocking the colt and aiming it through the bars.

The creature watches him, long since given up fighting this, now only breathing and looking upon him expectantly.

Only waiting for what it has wanted since it was imprisoned all those years ago.

Only waiting for what it knows is to come, as it bows its head in thanks.

Arthur pulls the trigger, and with a single bullet spent far too late, its suffering ends.

Smoke wisps from the end of the Colt as Arthur lowers it, the ring of the shot ending in the room. You stand silently, noting the way the creature now lies limp on the floor, freed as it desired.

“Come on,” Arthur hands you the Colt then, walking past you, “I can hear a couple of horses outside, probably the drafts they had pullin’ our wagons. Figure you can take one, and I’ll just shift and follow the scent trail.”

Nodding, you move in tow, and together, you leave the building. Arthur’s nostrils flare lightly, and he looks in the direction of where the dirt road leading into the massive building passes through the trees.

“Seems like there are a few Pinkertons down the way, about fifty yards out...”

Brandishing the Colt, you tilt your head at him, “I ain’t afraid of target practice.”

That gets a chuckle out of him, but he still shakes his head, “’Fraid we’ll have to save that for another time. That building was pretty muffled for them to hear, but a gunshot out in the open like this will be a death sentence. I’ll go ahead and clear out what guards will be in our way quietly while you get one of those horses situated. Only fire that gun if you got no other choice,” as you take a step away, Arthur grabs your hand, his palm moving over the neckerchief once more, “Rabbit, please, stay safe.”

Squeezing his hand with your own, you murmur, “You too...”

Your hands fall away from one another as he looks back down the road, “I’ll be back once they’re taken care of, and then, I’ll lead you the rest of the way.”

You nod, and you watch as he shifts seamlessly shifts into his wolf.

Shaking out his blonde fur, the massive wolf peers down the length of the road, his ears pricking as he goes to sleuth into the trees. Making sure you keep your eyes on him until he is lost to the dark and foliage, you creep over to the horses.

You single out a pale, silver draft. The mare looks the least worn from pulling the wagons, and she lifts her head at you, her dark eyes finding you in the dark as you approach.

“Easy girl,” you tell her, “I don’t mean any trouble.”

The draft nickers at you, allowing you to come close to give her a quick pat. She seems open to you, not skittish like the chestnut Belgian at her side who shifts on his hooves.

“Easy does it...”

You hop onto her bare back, careful not to pull her mane as you situate yourself. She adjusts perfectly to your weight, bobbing her head some as you grip onto the reins.

You turn her, shifting the draft until she’s pointed towards the mouth of the road, waiting just as you are for the right moment.

Crickets chirp around you, as well as a few cicadas who cry weakly from the trees, but they are nothing but static with the thoughts that pass through your mind.

Back there, what happened...

You’re not entirely sure how you were able to do what you did. Both with the silver of the wagons, or with Cornwall. Unlike Arthur, you’ve never had to fight like that in your life, and while you worked your ranch with your family day in and day out, you not once had a reason to do anything of that nature.

Were you capable of this all along and never knew? Did your parents know, and not tell you?

You doubt that one... Your parents, they hated myths just as much as any other narrow-minded human. That was obvious over the times that they spent talking to you about them over dinner as though the dramatic tales of bloodshed and murder were anecdotes instead of anything exaggerated or false in the name of fear’s sake.

Had you done anything like that while they were alive, you wouldn’t be, that was true without a doubt.

And thinking on it now, you feel a bit different... Just like in that room, when Arthur was lying on the wagon as the silver worked its way out of his system, that tether you felt... While you care about the myth in ways you didn’t want to exactly admit or acknowledge as of yet, it was almost as if you _feel_ that connection between you both, that it was almost tangible to the point of you being able to grab ahold of it.

That, it was never there before. Not even earlier today. You would’ve remembered that. That sinking, drawing feeling to Arthur.

It was as though you’d almost woken up in some way, and everything so far has only been time spent dreaming.

You look at the moon, sensing a buzz under your skin, as though your nerves almost couldn’t settle. But you feel calm, collected, not anxious in the slightest.

So what was this?

A twig snapping has your stare breaking just the same.

The draft underneath you shifts some, slightly unsettled as you grip onto your Colt. You look around, not seeing anyone immediately until a familiar form appears from the foliage.

It’s Arthur, with his muzzle bloody and eyes just as crimson as they meet yours. The saliva that works its way down your throat is thick, but you nod to him, wordlessly letting him know you’re ready.

The wolf bows his head, and turns, beginning to trot down the road.

Knocking your feet back into her side, you spur the draft, getting her into a light gallop to follow behind Arthur as he scents the road.

The draft rides low and heavy, but she doesn’t scare as you come close to Arthur, following him as he leads you on.

You don’t follow too close to the road, avoiding other riders in the dark, both Pinkerton and Lemoyne hunters, and human all the like. The light from their lanterns and the sound of their horses help you navigate around them as Arthur cuts a path through the Heartlands for you to follow.

Eventually, after some riding, the wind shifts, causing Arthur to take a moment to triangulate the direction of your old scents when you hear some frogs nearby. It’s not too off, but in the moonlight, you can see a pond, and directly across from it, a few buildings with lanterns lit, and you begin to recognize where you are.

“Think that’s Mattock Pond,” you tell Arthur, pointing, “And over there, that must be Hill Haven Ranch if it is.”

The wolf seems to get his bearings alongside you, and as the wind stops shifting and he presses his nose to the ground, he appears to catch the trail again.

You realize, as he keeps heading further southward, that you’re heading closer and closer to camp. Catching up to him, you try to keep your voice down.

“Did Micah set them up to ambush us?” you ask, “’Cause we seem to keep headin’ in the direction of Clemens Point...”

Arthur meets your gaze, and you can see the cogs turning in his head.

“Wait— over there, by the Southfield Flats,” you point once again, this time to the smoke that rises into the air, “That’s too much to be from a campfire...”

Arthur doesn’t hesitate, already bursting into a sprint that has you scrambling to match him in speed with your horse. He’s much quicker than the poor mare will ever be though, his legs blurring beneath him as he practically melds into the tall swaying grass he pushes through.

You move your attention to the plumes billowing into the air, to the acrid scent that you remember distinctly from what seems like a lifetime ago when your ranch was attacked— fire.

You begin to spot some of the flames, smoldering away at the grass and a few trees surrounding the area. You come upon Pinkerton bodies lying about, and the once pristine landscape is marred by both flame and blood.

Your eyes trace the scene, looking for any familiar faces among the countless corpses now left to rot on the ground, and you don’t find any.

“A-Arthur!?” you cry out, having to hop off the draft horse as she about rears at the sight of the flames encroaching on the dried grass surrounding the clearing.

A deep bark of sorts catches your attention, and it’s then that the myth comes upon you, shifting with ease as he approaches.

“They ain’t here, Rabbit.”

“Then where could they have gone?” your panic somewhat gets the better of you then, “Cornwall set whatever men he had left on them, so did they take them?”

“Hosea wouldn‘t have shifted back, even if... if he—” Arthur swallows, his face lit up by the flames that devour the land some feet away from you both, “He wouldn’t have given them the satisfaction of moving him easily... That, and we would’ve heard those on the road talkin’ ‘bout it. Live or not, a dragon is sure as hell hard to miss...”

“Suppose you’re right... And if they didn’t get Hosea, they probably wouldn’t have gotten the others...” you murmur, “Can you pick up anythin’ scent wise?”

Arthur presses his lips together, looking a bit frustrated, “It’s hard to tell. The smoke pretty much covers up everythin’.”

“Let’s try and do a walk around the perimeter of it then, see if you can possibly pick up which way they went,” you move towards your horse, glancing back at Arthur, “It’s only been a few hours or so since the start of all this... They couldn’t have gone far.”

The careful blankness of Arthur’s face is more telling than anything else, and it’s almost as though you can feel his own perturbation.

“Arthur,” you call to him, stalling beside the antsy mare as the werewolf looks to you, “We’re gonna find ‘em, okay?”

He only nods, but his eyes speak for him. It’s obvious that he doesn’t like this situation, and you can tell more than anything that his mind is working away at the what-if's as he turns, shifting back and going around the fire to try and find the gang’s scent.

It worries you, not just the situation, but how Arthur seems to be affected. After all, he’s like Kieran in the sense that his myth is meant to have a pack, a group just like him. And with the scarcity of werewolves due to Cornwall’s obtuse influence, the gang is probably the closest he has ever come to it. And holding onto them as he has for a little over twenty years?

You won’t try to imagine what it feels like for him.

Handling the horse and spurring her out of the inside of the clearing, you circle road, the wild gusts of wind carrying strands of your hair as it does the smoke as it blows past. Almost as though it were carrying you as well, you stop the mare next to a clutch of trees, waiting for Arthur to return.

Eventually he does, yipping to you and already running down the road past you.

Not hesitating, you follow suit, and the two of you are once again on the move.

You realize then that you are both heading back to Clemens Point, as you past by one of the roads marked for Rhodes, and your worry only grows as Arthur’s haste deepens.

Dust as red as rust rises with every drag of Arthur’s paw in the clay-rich soil, his blonde hair turning almost orange with the way he drugs it up as he sprints, mouth open in panting as he pushes forward, muscles bunching and driving him through the trees as you near camp.

Despite it being late in the night, you do not see the fires that usually burned within camp, and your heart stutters as you try to spur the mare to run faster.

All but crashing through the trees, you find Arthur standing alone. He’s completely still, except for the way the wind ruffles his fur as he eyes the remnants of the gang’s camp, abandoned and left behind for him to come upon.

You slow the draft down, cursing as you drop off of her before she slows, steadying yourself on your feet as you look to see several of the wagons and tents that were ditched, their canvas waving gently in the breeze.

“A-Arthur,” you breathe, coming up to stand beside the wolf, “Are they—”

In all the time that you have known Arthur, you have only heard him howl a handful of times. Mostly, because of the implications it brought. It was a safety hazard for him to do so on the full moon, all but a dinner bell for the Pinkertons. Especially for a night such as tonight.

So when he throws his head back, letting out a long, anguished cry, your chest constricts.

The sound changes as Artur does, morphing from the forlorn cry of a wolf to the angered yell of a man.

His back shines with sweat, glistening and heaving as his bellow ceases on a broken note, the man falling to his knees as he overlooks the remains of the camp’s hideout.

“T-They’re—”

The man jolts slightly as your bandaged hand places itself on his shoulder, and he looks up to you, eyes red, “I only found this one trail,” he explains, his voice ruff.

“Are you—”

“I made sure, Rabbit... I went around twice before I came to get you,” he clenches a fist before slamming it on the ground, “ _Goddammit!”_

“Listen, you said yourself that we would’ve heard about them takin’ Hosea at the very least, and I know that Dutch and the others wouldn’t have let them take him without a fight. And with Lou not even bein’ here, I’m pretty sure they got out,” Arthur refuses to look at you, looking all but crushed, “My guess is they had to cover their tracks to where even we couldn’t find ‘em.”

“Dutch had Grimshaw start packin’, when we came to grab you,” Arthur mutters, and as he looks around, taking in all that was left behind, he shakes his head, “Looks like they barely got the chance to get everythin’ rounded up.”

“Did he talk about a new place to go to?”

“No. There was no time... We discovered you were gone, and I—” Arthur pauses, growing quiet, “I ran before I could think about it.”

It sounds like an admission of sorts, and you press your lips together as Arthur tries to gather himself.

Forcing himself onto his feet, the werewolf turns his head towards his tent, and heads to it.

“What are you doin’?”

“Grabbin’ what I can... The Pinkertons, they’re not gonna be happy once they realize Cornwall is dead. He may have been their leader, but they don’t need him alive to hate us or continue his work. And with what’s happened, you and I can’t take any risks right now,” the myth stops at the trunk at his bed, grabbing a pair of clothes out and getting his pants together first, “The worst thing to be is on your own when you’re a myth. We may have each other, but there’s safety in numbers. It’s why you don’t ever see a myth runnin’ ‘round by themselves.”

“If you and I are runnin’ where are we runnin’ to?”

“Wherever we can... While I don’t like heading that way, Dutch most likely moved the gang further southeast. The Pinkertons have burned us out every other way. Think he mentioned a place near Rhodes we might try out first, an abandoned plantation house.”

“Shady Belle?”

As Arthur finishes getting his pants put together, he glances at you as he grabs his blue everyday shirt, “You know if it?”

“Cornwall told me about it. He used to live there, before the war,” you explain, watching as Arthur works his shirt over his head.

Leaving the first few buttons undone, Arthur grabs his satchel off of his cot and begins to walk around, filling it, “Well, he had Lenny and I check it out. There were some squatters in there, but ain’t nothin’ to big... It was large enough to house the gang there. Not many places that could in a short distance from here. Makes sense they’d head that way to try and avoid any other Pinkertons chasing after them.”

“Well, sounds like we have a plan,” you murmur, and you tilt your head at him, “What do you need me to do?”

The myth ducks under his bed, grabbing a canvas bag and tossing it to you, “Go through what you can as quickly as possible. Take any food, guns, clothes, or things we may need, but try and be light at the same time... I didn’t see my horse, so the draft is all we got for right now. But it should do us just fine if we’re able to meet up with the gang.”

And quietly, as you eye him while he packs what he can, you ask, “And if we don’t?”

He slows, his hand hesitating as he grabs ahold a box of repeater cartridges.

“I... I guess we’ll know once we get to Shady Belle.”

Nodding minutely, you step away, leaving to grab what you can.

The two of you take about ten minutes tops, trying to gather what you could. It’s almost like when you fled Blackwater, having to leave so much behind and having to nearly start anew. In fact, you’re leaving a lot of stuff behind as you did, and you try to ignore the way it drags at you as you stuff the canvas bag at your side.

After you pillage what you can, the two of you meet up by the horse, and Arthur hops onto her back first, offering his hand to you.

Touching his skin feels like static now, but you ignore it, going to settle behind him as he begins to spur the poor mare forward.

Steadily she takes you both, as sure as the turn of the earth as the moon begins to sink below the mountain tops, and the sky begins to lighten into swatches of purple and blue.

You hold onto Arthur, feeling the tension in the man as he spurs and guides the draft, taking her past Rhodes and further into the start of the swamps in Lemoyne. And you know that with each and every fall of the mare’s hooves, he only grows more and more anxious.

It doesn’t lighten as he turns down a break off the road, going down to where the trees overhang the dirt path in a messier fashion than the ones at the Braithwaite’s estate. Soon, at the end of it, you see the dilapidated remains of the plantation house, and your eyes begin to search for any signs of the gang’s presence there.

You don’t see any though. No tracks. No wagons or horses. Nothing to note any presence apart from your own as you near the forlorn property.

As you come upon the overgrown courtyard, Arthur slows the draft until you both are able to dismount from her.

“Dutch! Hosea!” Arthur calls out, looking to the weather-stripped door to the house and waiting, “Anybody!?”

The only answer the wolf receives is silence, and your heart breaks as you see the first bit of denial pass over Arthur’s face.

“John! Lenny!” he tries, looking to the windows to see any reaction from inside, “Come on!”

Feeling your stomach sink, you watch as Arthur pushes.

“We gotta check inside, come on—”

“Arthur...”

Stopping from where he was beginning to head into the plantation house, Arthur pivots towards you, “They could’ve hidden the horses off a bit, so they couldn’t be seen when you—”

“Arthur, they ain’t here.”

The werewolf’s eyes burn at those words, and he shakes his head, “Now, we haven’t done a good search yet...”

“There wasn’t any fresh tracks leadin’ in here until we came up on it,” you tell him, knowing he noticed too but doesn’t want to admit the truth, “And they would’ve answered by now, or we would’ve seen somethin’. It’s hard to hide that many people, and you know that.”

“Dammit, Rabbit, I do!” he snaps, gritting his teeth as his eyes flash.

You press your lips together as the man drops his chin to his chest, breathing roughly as he collects himself.

“They ain’t here, Arthur,” you repeat softly, and you hate the way that Arthur’s face falls, at the way he looks at the mansion brokenly.

“Where could they have gone? . . .”

The question is almost heartbroken, and you step closer to Arthur, his pain radiating off of him like the first rays of sunlight stretching through the sky.

You come close, wrapping your arms around him and only breathing. At first, he doesn’t seem to react, but slowly, his arms snake around you, pulling you close and tight as though he feared you would disappear within the next second.

He holds you like this for some time, and you allow it, resting your head on his shoulder and gripping onto him just as much.

“We’ll find them,” you vow under your breath, feeling the way Arthur sinks his nose into your hair and takes deep breaths to calm himself, “You and me, we’ll find ‘em. Together.”

And it’s about as sure as the sun rising in east.

To bring light to the dark. To bring peace to the chaos.

And to bring both of you back home.

 

 

 

 

**TO BE CONTINUED . . .**

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt me, ask me like google, or submit shit at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> This is was written to:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHrZ6hIKcqM&t=2772s


End file.
